


Over Sea

by amaruuk



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-27
Updated: 2020-10-27
Packaged: 2021-03-08 20:55:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 76,226
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27233101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amaruuk/pseuds/amaruuk
Summary: Frodo was given the gift of healing in the Blessed Realm. What happened to him after the White Ship sailed out of the Grey Havens?"Frodo! Look at me. Youwilllook at me."He could not disobey, not Gandalf, not even in the extremity of the Ring's possession. He blinked hard, trying to focus, and added his other hand to the slick rope. At the outer edges of the squall, where they now rode, the wind blew not from one direction but seemingly all. Frodo was at risk of being plucked from the railing no matter how determinedly he held on."Look at me, Frodo," Gandalf warned."Do not close your eyes."But even with his eyes open, the world was fading. Devastating heat, stone walls, sulphurous fumes, and harsh shadows cast by reaching flames commanded his senses. In his palm lay the Ring, brighter and more compelling than it had ever been. It knew he had come to destroy it. Worse, it knew he was weak. To it he was bound, and it he must obey.Put it on. Put it on!"You will see me!"Gandalf commanded.
Relationships: Bilbo Baggins & Frodo Baggins, Frodo Baggins & Gandalf | Mithrandir, Frodo Baggins & Sam Gamgee, Frodo Baggins & The Fellowship of the Ring
Comments: 6
Kudos: 16





	Over Sea

**Author's Note:**

> Over Sea is based mostly on the novel by JRR Tolkien, with the obvious influence of Peter Jackson's casting. The farewell scene was written before I saw Return of the King and I was surprised at how close it came to the film version.
> 
> JRRT himself dithered over Frodo's experience post-Grey Havens. Having established that no mortals could come to Valinor—ever—it required some back-pedaling to explain either that Frodo's voyage was a metaphor for death; that he would be healed and then die; or, that he would be healed—if it were possible—and then take the gift of Men when he was ready. Stubbornly, JRRT maintained that he could not know what had happened to Frodo, because none could visit those lands. Although the omniscient narrator described what Frodo saw when the ship came to Valinor, it is perhaps expected that the reader should understand that this was an imagined part of the tale, no more; merely a tradition continued through the Fourth Age. Or perhaps JRRT let slip that he really did know more, and simply declined to share. The rat.

Dusk lay heavy on the Grey Havens. The slap of waves against the pillars of the quay and the cry of seabirds were muffled by the thickening mist, which itself was made denser by the coming of night.

It was time to go.

Frodo embraced and kissed his cousins; Merry first, then Pippin. He marveled anew at their height and their manner, and could not resist cuffing Pippin lightly on the chin. Pippin said with a catch in his voice, "We'll miss you, Frodo."

He turned then to Sam, who looked as if his heart was breaking.

"Friend of friends," Frodo said softly.

"Mr. Frodo—"

Frodo took him in his arms and held him tightly. Sam wept, still trying to speak. But Frodo kissed his forehead and said, "My dear, dear, Sam." He held Sam's face between his palms and stared hard into his eyes. "Good bye," he whispered. And then he walked away, following Gandalf onto the loading plank. They were the last to board.

As if at a command, though Frodo heard none, the sails spread like great butterfly wings until held gently taut before the wind, and the White Ship glided regally into the firth. With a soothing smile on his lips, Frodo gazed down from the stern at Sam, his heart beating too fast, his breathing shallow. He had dreaded this moment and longed for it; but the pain of it far exceeded anything he had imagined. Sam's familiar figure grew small in the distance, then tiny, and at last was no longer visible at all. Twilight succumbed to the darkness, and the lanterns of the Grey Havens became faint flickerings in the distance. Frodo gave up all pretense of composure: tears mingled with the salt spray on his cheeks and his face crumpled with misery. He wrenched the lady's light from his pocket and thrust it overhead, a beacon for any eyes that might yet see. Its pure brilliance cut through the mist, illuminating his dark head.

"Do not be long," Gandalf said, resting a hand on Frodo's shoulder. "Bilbo will be asking for you."

"I won't," he promised, knowing that his voice betrayed him. But Gandalf pressed his shoulder and said nothing. Staring fixedly at the already distant shore, Frodo scarcely noticed when the wizard left him. Beneath his feet the ship slowly swayed and rolled, and he swayed and rolled with it, finding the motion calming and natural. Eventually, he restored the light to his pocket, and instantly night closed in around him.

 _"You cannot be always torn in two."_ He had said those words to Sam. Had Sam guessed that they applied to Frodo as well? For nearly two years he had denied the truth, contradictorily fighting to keep it hidden while trying to prove it false. In the Shire he had hoped to find comfort and peace, to recover the life he had known before the Ring had awakened and begun to work its evil on him. With it gone, and his old life restored, he had believed that possible. For a little while. But the taint had sunk too deep, as had the regret of his failure. The Shire folk had not condemned him for that, their personal concerns more pressing no matter how inconsequential; nor had they shunned him as he, so he believed, deserved. By withdrawing from their company, by leading a deathly quiet life, however, he had encouraged them to forget about him altogether.

In Rivendell, Elrond had warned that he would be slow to heal, but Frodo had desperately wanted to believe him wrong. Within only a couple of years, the grief of his woundings and the growing realization that he had become a burden on those whom he loved had at last convinced him otherwise. Queen Arwen had said that he could pass into the West, _"until all your wounds and weariness are healed,"_ and Elrond, her father, had told him that Bilbo would leave when the Elves took ship, in autumn. He had not been more specific than that, so that when Frodo finally made up his mind to go on this last journey, he had feared that he might have left it too late. But shortly after, word had come from Rivendell by way of a snow-white dove: a terse note, but one that he had understood.

"Frodo."

He looked up, startled to find Gandalf standing beside him. "It's very late."

"Is it? I'm sorry. Is Bilbo all right?"

"Quite all right. He has dined, supped, and is now sleeping in his bed."

"Thank you for looking after him. And Sam, too. I wasn't thinking. About how hard it would be on him after we left."

Gandalf regarded him with understanding. "You wanted him to yourself one last time."

"I suppose I did." Frodo nodded, chagrined. "But I should have realized how he would feel."

"Samwise will be fine, Frodo. He has a home and a family to return to. And despite that, in time, I believe, he will follow."

Frodo gave him a wry look. "Will I be there to meet him?"

Gandalf's brows furrowed together. "What do you mean?"

"I've read some of the tales, Gandalf. The words spoken to the men of Númenor."

"Refresh my memory."

"'If mortals come to Aman, it will be as moths to the flame….'"

A look of mild outrage deepened Gandalf's frown. "You think I am taking you to your death? Frodo, I am bringing you to Aman to heal you."

Too secure in Gandalf's love to quail before that louring look, Frodo pointed out, "That is a kind of healing."

"Ah, but not the kind I had in mind." Gandalf shook his great head, his shining white hair as bright against the sky as many of the stars glittering in the blackness. "You have been granted a special grace, you and Bilbo—and Sam, when he chooses to follow."

Ignoring the magnitude of this statement, Frodo leapt to the part that mattered most. "You seem very certain that he will."

"I have no doubts about Samwise." Head bent to one side, Gandalf said coaxingly, "We have traveled far, Frodo, and have far yet to go. I suggest you take some dinner and retire to your bed for a few hours, at least."

"I am tired," Frodo conceded. "And I don't think I quite believe all of this yet."

Gandalf patted his shoulder. "It will become as familiar as an old hat. You'll see. Come along, then." He showed him the way to the stairs leading below decks. As they walked, Frodo cast glances back toward the empty darkness that held the Grey Havens. It seemed almost a betrayal to turn away and in so doing admit to the finality of this leave-taking. But there was no longer anything to see, and no longer anyone, at this remove, who could witness his departure.

In the great dining room, the long wooden tables were still occupied. Elves sat in groups small and large, some singing or telling tales of the lands to which they were sailing, others drinking and eating. A quiet contentment informed them all: they were happy to be going home. Frodo helped himself to a piece of lembas from one of several baskets set in the middle of the table, and accepted from Gandalf a goblet of wine that set his head spinning almost upon the first sip. He chose a spot at the end of a table, attempting an inconspicuousness that he knew was doomed to failure with Gandalf at his side. And yet, though others surveyed them and perhaps remarked upon them, none interrupted their intimacy. 

The first bite of lembas reminded him of how very empty his stomach was. When had he eaten last? It also served to restore other, more certain memories: He and Sam eating the Elvish waybread sheltering from a torrential rainstorm in the Emyn Muil, and much later choking down the final crumbs during the terrible march to the Mountain of Fire. It had sustained them in a way nothing else could have done; but, though it was a wondrous substance, they had grown weary of it and yearned for good Shire fare. This bite brought back that first taste, and how rare and pure it had seemed. But it made him think also of the food of the Shire. The realization that he would never sample it again came over him like a sudden, cold wave.

He knew the danger of such thoughts. The Shire was beyond his reach now, no matter how near or far in actual miles. He must begin to look forward and rarely, if ever, back. And, if it seemed that he was abandoning all that he knew and loved, he must tell himself that at the end of this journey there waited the possibility of recovery and peace.

"Don't look so worried, Frodo," Gandalf murmured. He gazed warmly into Frodo's face. "You just need to rest. Things will seem better then."

Frodo bent his head over the last bite of his small meal. "I hope you're right," he said thickly.

"Finish your wine. Then I'll take you to your cabin."

Just as they were rising from the table, and Frodo was feeling more than ever as if he could sleep where he stood, a tall Elf accompanied by several companions strode up to them. He bowed, speaking words of courtesy. Before he could remember himself, Frodo exclaimed, "Gildor!"

"Hello, Frodo Baggins. So you decided to put an end to our waiting?"

Frodo gazed up at him blankly. "What do you mean?"

"Gildor…" Gandalf murmured.

The Elf smiled as if to soften his words. "The White Ship would not sail without you, you know."

A glance at Gandalf confirmed this statement. "I did not know," Frodo said, and felt unaccountably guilty.

"Forgive me," Gildor said at once. "I was but jesting. Another ten years could have passed and we would scarce have noticed. But you are tired or you would have laughed." He paused, studying Frodo as if seeing him for the first time. "You have been through much since last we met, have you not, my hobbit friend?"

Frodo bowed before the compassion in the Elf's eyes. "No more than many; far less than some," he muttered.

"You demur," Gildor said gently. "The memory of your travels is in your eyes. When you are in the land of the Valar, it will lose its sting. I assure you." He brightened. "Until then, I hope you will find time to tell your tale. There are many here who are greatly honored to share this ship with you, and we crave to hear every word. You will tell us all of it, won't you?"

A little overwhelmed, Frodo said, "Yes. If you like."

"But later," Gandalf interjected. "He is much in need of sleep at the moment. His tale would not make much sense if he were to embark on it now."

"Of course." Gildor bent his head. His companions followed this example, speaking words that Frodo could barely hear. "When you have rested."

Frodo returned the courtesy. Belatedly, his weary brain recalled something important. "Thank you, Gildor, for your help in the trees of the Woody End. I and my companions will always be indebted to you."

Gildor laughed. "Your debt is very small compared to ours. But I thank you in turn, though words will never suffice." With that he turned away, followed by his retinue, each of whom offered a bow in passing.

"Come, Frodo," Gandalf said.

The ship was very large, but somehow Frodo had not quite comprehended the vastness of it until Gandalf guided him through many long corridors lit by tapers in intricately carved wall sconces at regular intervals, and down several flights of steps. Unlike many hobbits, unbridged water was not a source of instantaneous terror for him, but it was a strange thing to find comfort deep in the warren-like tunnels of the ship, even though here the sound of the sea grew more noticeable with each step. But he did, feeling more at ease the lower from the surface they progressed. At last they reached a door that Gandalf gestured toward. A candle flickered in a holder attached to the wall just above Frodo's shoulder. Extra tapers were held by a curving hand of wood at the base of the sconce. Frodo took one, then hesitated as sound from within the room became noticeable. He looked up at Gandalf with a slight smile. Those stentorian snores could belong to only one person, and Frodo warmed to hear them.

"I shall leave you here," Gandalf said. He seemed to relax at Frodo's expression. "Home is more than a place, isn't it? Sleep well, Frodo."

Gandalf went back up the corridor, and as he walked away, Frodo turned the latch and quietly entered the room. The light in his hand melted rather than cut through the gloom. Following the trail of sound, he quickly picked out Bilbo's bed, where the small form huddled beneath Elvish bedclothes. A table stood between it and a second bed, which was positioned against the wall near where Frodo stood. Upon the turned-down covers lay a nightshirt. As he pulled the door to behind him, Frodo cast the light toward the other end of the room. A tall wardrobe stood to his left, and there, opposite the foot of Bilbo's bed on the other side of a small washstand, and, half concealed by a large chair, was yet another bed. And upon it— Frodo's breath caught in his throat. Lightheaded, he stepped toward the form stretched out on the covers and raised the candle to see it more clearly. But the form was not another hobbit, only their rucksacks and Bilbo's jacket, laid haphazardly along the bed's length.

Frodo exhaled sharply. It was preposterous, really, the notion that had jumped into his mind, if only for an instant. Trembling, he made his way to the bed next to Bilbo's and silently lowered himself onto the edge of the mattress. He scarcely registered that it was a feather bed, though he had expected nothing more than a pallet upon which to spread his bedroll. Yet as he sat there, recomposing himself, Frodo began to take in his surroundings. A tiny smile curved his lips: everything in the room—the beds, the wardrobe, the washstand, the table, and the chair were hobbit size. Even the sconce in the corridor had been set low, for his convenience.

He rose, though exhaustion begged him simply to collapse, and tugged off his clothing. He placed breeches, shirt, and jacket, neatly folded, on the chair. Then he pulled the nightshirt over his head, allowing the soft folds to fall about him, and made another discovery: this was not his nightshirt, but a gift from the Elves. The fabric was far finer than anything made in the Shire, warm without bulk, close without binding.

At last he slid beneath the covers and drew them to his chin. Heavy-lidded, his eyes roved around the room, coming to settle on the third bed. "Sam," he half-laughed to himself.

Frodo stretched out an arm and pinched the candlewick between thumb and middle finger. In the deep darkness that fell about him, he wondered when these quarters had been constructed, for it was evident that Sam had been expected to join them. _"I have no doubts about Samwise."_ It was not yet Sam's time. But what would happen when it was his time? Would there be a ship to carry him to Frodo—a ship built with a hobbit-size room, with only a single bed?

Frodo trusted the Elves, and more importantly Gandalf, to ensure that that ship would be waiting for him. But as his eyes fell shut, heavy as if weighted with stones, it occurred to him that the wizard had not really answered his earlier question: _"Will I be there to meet him?"_

* * *

"Wake up, Frodo!" The voice, familiar and familiarly querulous, cut through his dreams like a gust of air striking dandelion feathers. "Come on then, sleepyhead," Bilbo urged. "I'm hungry!"

The room was golden with the light of many candles. Dopily, Frodo looked up into Bilbo's creased but animated face and was puzzled but pleased to see the old hobbit so spry. "What time is it?" Frodo mumbled.

"If my tummy is anything to go by, at least half past first breakfast and rapidly approaching second."

"Oh, right. Sorry." Frodo clambered out of the covers, rubbed his hands over his face, and stood. "Just let me wash my face and pull on some clothes."

"Good, good." As Frodo shuffled to the washstand, Bilbo promptly sat on his rumpled bed. "It's the oddest thing, you know."

Frodo splashed cold water on his face. "What's that?" he asked, patting his cheeks dry, and then plucking at the back of his nightshirt and peeling it off his shoulders and over his head.

"I don't feel a bit sleepy. And I've been up for hours."

Bending a skeptical look in Bilbo's direction, Frodo said, "Hours?"

"Yes, hours. I've been writing. While you slept."

Buttoning his shirt, Frodo could not forestall a rush of affection. "I'm sorry, Bilbo. I must have been more tired than I realized."

"That's all right." He studied Frodo with a critical eye. "How thin you are! You cannot afford to miss another breakfast, my dear fellow."

Frodo snapped his braces onto his shoulders and picked up his jacket. "You have had the benefit of Elvish fare," he said equably. "Though I certainly never complained about Sam's or Rosie's cooking. I don't recall leaving my plate other than empty most of the time." He began to blow out the candles.

"Ah, Sam's cooking," Bilbo said with a gleam of nostalgia. "Good solid victuals from that boy."

Frodo laughed. "Let's go before you start reminiscing about his rhubarb pie and kidney pudding. You'll accuse me of starving you."

When the room was dark, they crossed the threshold into the corridor. "That way, I think," Frodo said, not at all comfortable that he could find his way back to the open. But Bilbo agreed, "Yes, it's that way. I did go up top for a while."

"Did you?" Frodo shook his head in wonderment. "You were always a better traveler than I, Bilbo."

With Bilbo's confident leadership, Frodo began to see familiarity in their turnings and climbings. Before he knew it, they were stepping into the great hall where all the tables were laid out. It was well populated, and many heads swiveled toward them as they walked in. "You are the only one I kept waiting, right, Bilbo?" Frodo asked, suffering a pang of doubt under the weight of so many eyes.

"As far as I know, lad." Bilbo waved to acquaintances and called out greetings as they wended through the tables toward a group near the opposite end of the hall. Frodo fixed a pleasant expression on his face, nodding and smiling when his name was spoken, which was more often than he might have imagined.

"You have come at last, Bilbo. Frodo." Frodo knew that voice, but did not see its owner until Elrond rose from the head of a crowded table.

"Hello, hello," Bilbo said. "I have finally rousted the layabout from his bed, and here we are."

"Lord Elrond," Frodo said, inclining his head.

"Will you sit with us?"

"Of course," Bilbo replied for them both. "Oh, no, you needn't make space for us, we can sit—oh, well, if you must." With surprising dignity and agility, Bilbo mastered the height of the bench beside Elrond and settled himself at the table. Frodo, feeling far less agile, apologetically sat alongside him.

"Thank you, Ellhach," Elrond said, as a dark Elf rose at once and began to serve them. Plates of thickly sliced bread, a variety of cheeses, apples, quince, and berries made Frodo's stomach complain with anticipation. Small pots contained honey and strawberry jam. Ellhach filled their goblets with peach nectar. By its scent alone Frodo knew that it would taste delightful.

"How did you sleep?" Elrond asked, as the hobbits piled their plates with food.

"Like a baby," Bilbo replied. "A well fed, clean, and happy baby."

Elrond smiled. "Are your accommodations to your liking, Frodo?"

Frodo's eyes were closed as the first sip from his goblet rested gently upon his tongue. He swallowed. "Very comfortable, Lord Elrond." For an instant he considered telling him about his shock at seeing the third bed. But that would lead to explaining why he had been so surprised. _"Not Sam; just a heap of our travel packs and clothing."_ "Too comfortable, according to Bilbo. I overslept."

A soft, musical chorus of laughter came upon his statement. Frodo took another drink of his nectar and felt himself begin to relax.

Bilbo, naturally gregarious, and a longtime friend of Elrond, found much to speak of. Frodo contented himself with listening to the conversations quietly swirling around him and eating until all of his empty corners were quite thoroughly filled. And then he sat, finishing a second helping of nectar, which had been poured into his goblet unnoticed. After a while, he decided he must walk off some of his meal, for he was feeling drowsy again, and he had no intention of nodding off in this exalted company.

He waited until he might break into the conversation without imposing. And then he made his excuses and the appropriate courtesies, and left.

As he had been eating, he had marked that a second door at this end of the hall appeared to lead to another flight of stairs. He explored there and found that his impression had been accurate. So he went upward, groaning as he mounted each step. Before long, he came to a landing, which gave onto another run of stairs. Lifting his head, he breathed in the smell of salt and fresh air. It drew him upward, distracting him from his discomfort, and by the time he came to yet another landing, he was determined not to delay.

But there he stopped, staring at the sky overhead, which was not blue, nor cloudy, nor grey with mist. It was the sky of nighttime, albeit clear and crisp as he had never seen it before. The stars of the Shire, at their brightest, had always reminded him of candle flames behind thin layers of fine gauze. 

But these were like stones cut and polished to capture every facet of light. They glittered and flared like torchlight reflected off a dark, unfathomable pool. Frodo could almost feel their light filling his eyes with their brightness as he stepped off the stair and onto the deck. Darkness hugged the world from horizon to horizon, but its velvet depths were brilliant with stars—more stars than Frodo had ever seen anywhere.

"We are on the Straight Road," Gandalf said, coming to stand beside him.

Frodo gave him a smile of welcome. "So I didn't sleep right round the clock. This is the light of the First Born?" he asked.

"Yes. A little brighter, perhaps, because there is nothing of Middle-earth here to dim it."

"It is very beautiful, but— " Frodo faltered.

"Yes?"

"Is it also the light of Valinor?"

"Only at night, Frodo." Gandalf told him reassuringly. "There you will see the sun again and feel her warmth." He gazed upward at the stars with quiet pleasure, as if beholding old friends. "The Straight Road must go round the paths of the sun so that none below might observe our passage."

They walked together toward the railing. "How long, Gandalf," Frodo asked, peering over the edge, "until we make landfall?" He could hear waves splashing about the ship's hull, and the breeze was thick with the scent of salt, but it was either too dark or they stood at too great a height for the sea to be visible.

"Some while. Long enough in fact for you to consider writing your tale in the language of the Eldar."

Frodo was taken aback. "Elvish?"

"You will agree with the wisdom of my suggestion after you have told it so often that you begin to recite it in your sleep."

"It will not come to that?"

"I think it is a certainty." Gandalf closed his eyes and tilted his head back. His hair was lifted off his shoulders by a sharp gust. He inhaled deeply. "You are very famous, Frodo. And you have a tale beyond compare to tell."

With a little sigh, Frodo murmured, "I only did what I had to do, and it was nearly not enough."

"Some day you may come to see your deeds as others do. Not in the Shire way, where much is made of little things—like a hobbit big enough to ride a horse—and little is made of great things—like hobbits destroying the Enemy."

A slow grin lifted the corners of Frodo's lips. "That's not altogether true," he countered. "Merry and Pippin are both deemed big enough to ride horses, and their part in the undoing of the Enemy is thought no little thing at all."

"Indeed. And had you courted attention as they do, you would not have been so easily overlooked," Gandalf pointed out.

"Oh, no: they were being kind. It was what I preferred. 'Court attention'!" Frodo laughed softly, but without humor. He turned and leaned back against the railing. Looking up at the hugely billowing sails, and beyond, the stars glinting above the masts, he said, "I will not be missed, I think. It is better for everyone this way."

"Are you feeling sorry for yourself, Frodo?" Gandalf asked quietly.

Frodo's gaze sharpened. "No!" He corrected himself, "Well, not very much." He folded his arms across his chest. The darkness beyond the railing was unbroken. "Leaving was hard, that's all. It'll be all right."

"It will," Gandalf agreed. "If you give it time." They stood silently for a moment. Then Gandalf added, "But do work on your Elvish, won't you?"

* * *

Frodo did not have time to study Elvish—or anything else. As Gandalf had predicted, he was soon called upon to recount his tale, and it became a regular feature of nearly every meal and every deckside stroll. Too long to condense into a single sitting, the tale consumed hours of his time. If he attempted to shorten it, someone would ask for details of this incident or descriptions of that place. Despite this, his grasp of the Elves' language did improve. The passengers of the White Ship were conversant with the Mannish tongues, but here, among their own kind, they often lapsed into their own speech. Frodo would not remind them, but silently soak up their words, furiously translating inside his head as best he could. Later, he would ask Gandalf, or Bilbo, or even Elrond to define a particularly troublesome word or phrase, and then to write it out for him so that he might learn its proper form.

He also learned to reckon time by the rhythms of his body, and at least once daily slipped away to spend a few moments topside, usually alone, though occasionally he sought out Gandalf or was joined there by him. The star patterns remained ever the same, and he once asked Gandalf how that could be so. Gandalf had replied, strangely, that they on the White Ship were no longer bound by the strictures of Middle-earth. If, he said, they could see the world where it lay far, far behind them, it would appear to turn, like a Dwarf's mechanical top, only very slowly. The notion of seeing the world of a piece was vaguely disturbing, and Frodo dreamt of it later, a small grey orb floating in an emptiness that was as grim, in its way, as the dead lands of Mordor. He woke feeling dispossessed and hopeless, and the mood lasted into the morning, stirring Bilbo to remark on Frodo's lack of appetite and downheartedness. Frodo asked him to reminisce about one of his adventures, and that was enough to set the old hobbit off. Through Bilbo's words, Frodo rediscovered the world he had left behind, and it was not small and grey but rich and green and vibrantly alive. And yet, beneath the joy of recollection was the knowledge that the Shire was unreachably far away—and would never be seen by either of them again.

A deep sense of melancholy began to settle within him. Throughout that day his hand went often to the star gem that hung from the chain about his neck, and he began to feel uneasy, as if all the decisions made in his life had been wrong ones. He was well practiced in hiding his inner turmoil, however, so that neither Bilbo nor Gandalf paid any heed. Had they noticed and voiced their concerns, Frodo was prepared to laugh them off: he had also grown adept at false assurances.

That night he awakened to the mournful shreds of a soft moan. As he climbed out of the depths of sleep and despair, he recognized the voice as his own. Shuddering, he glanced across at Bilbo's bed, but the old hobbit slept heavily, his snores as loud and regular as ever. Frodo lay a moment, one hand pressed against his shoulder, the other desperately clutching the Queen's jewel. A fire had awakened in the Morgul wound, somehow fiercer than mere pain, far more insistent than any ache. It was as if molten rock from the angry heart of Mount Doom had been poured beneath his flesh while he slept. He wanted to cry out, to weep aloud, but though tears coursed down his cheeks, he made no further sound.

Shakily, he freed himself from the bedding and went to the table and the carafe of water that stood upon it. He filled a glass and gulped it down, then waited a moment, listening to the endless creakings and sloshings of the ship. In the guttering glow of their night candle, he looked longingly at Bilbo. Had Frodo known such untrammeled rest since the Ring had awakened? Even now, with it destroyed these two years, it seemed to exert its influence, to make him yearn to hold it, to feel its cool weight against his chest, in his palm, on his finger, to hear it singing such promises as it alone could make. And even knowing that that desire was as much an unhealed wound as the one in his shoulder did nothing to lessen its power.

With care, he set the glass down, took a deep, steadying breath, and staggered quietly to the door. Noiselessly, he let himself out, stopping a moment in the corridor, where he tried to think beyond the terrible, haunting sense of loss. One thought formed clearly in his mind: _Elrond could help him._

He knew what was happening. Another anniversary of the stabbing on Weathertop was upon him. The depression, the grief, the yearning, the misery, and the deep, deep ache were all much worse at that time. He had hoped to evade it, and when he had taken his first step onto the deck of the White Ship, he had believed he might be safe. But with terrible clarity, he now understood: he would never be free of this burden. He would always know pain and emptiness and a vicious loneliness that only a bearer of the One Ring could understand. Smeágol had understood, for he had lived with that anguish for more years than Frodo could have ever fathomed. And it had driven him mad—as it was driving Frodo mad.

There were stars overhead, and Elves were gathered here and there in hushed conversations, their heads craned back, their far gazes fixed on the heavens. Frodo kept to the shadows, seeking their protection. A fresh breeze whipped the curls about his head and stung his eyes. How different from Mount Doom! In the Chamber of Fire there had been blistering, withering heat; a dizzying stench; and beneath his feet, the throb of the mountain's violent heart. He had stood there on the edge of the precipice, the metal of the Ring burning his fingers. Almost—almost, he had found the strength to throw it into the molten rivers below. But the will of the Ring had been strong, stronger by far than his. And it had overcome him. The voice that had claimed the Ring seemed to have come from another's throat, but it had been his own. There, in the Sammath Naur, where the Ring could not be denied, he had put it on.

Possession had been brief. Gollum had fallen upon him and together they had grappled for ownership. Never before had Frodo fought so ferociously for anything. The Ring was _his!_ He would kill to keep it. Gollum's need had proved stronger, however, and in an instant, the Ring had been stolen from him. His finger, maimed by a savage bite, had erupted in agony, and he had dropped to his knees, his cry, shrill and filled with shock, echoing in his own ears. Had there been a moment's respite during which loss had been outweighed by relief? Had sanity ever truly returned—the sanity he had known before undertaking the quest to destroy the Ring?

He shrank from the thought, forcing his mind back to that final moment before Gollum had intervened, that precious moment when the Ring had still been his. Eyes closed, he was once more in the Mountain of Fire, standing at the edge of the outcropping overlooking the cauldron of molten rock. There he welcomed the blasting heat, insensitive to the protest of lungs and flesh. The Ring was clutched close to his breast, its weight wonderfully heavy in his palm.

"Frodo. Frodo, please don't move." Gandalf's voice seemed to come from a vast distance. "Frodo, look at me!"

Without any memory of how he had come to be there, Frodo found himself poised at the highest point of the railing beneath the outer stretch of the yardarm. Here the wind was tumultuous, and beneath his feet the ship yawed and pitched in the remnants of a squall. Only his hand gripping a nearby sheet, itself tugged by each glutting of the sail, kept him from being flung overboard. A great distance below, black water chopped and frothed and was pocked with great splashes of rain. Struck with sudden desperation, he searched for Gandalf and found him a few feet away, staring up at him, his expression impassive, his calmness almost palpable.

"Do not let go."

Obeying that command without question, Frodo tried to tighten his grip. But the ache in his shoulder made his hold clumsy and unreliable. Worse, in his head the Ring still called to him. He was torn between two realities: this moment, on board the White Ship; and two years ago, standing near the great chasm of doom. He was simultaneously cold and hot, drenched and scorched, and he could no longer tell what was now and what was _then_. 

"Frodo! Look at me. You _will_ look at me."

He could not disobey, not Gandalf, not even in the extremity of the Ring's possession. He blinked hard, trying to focus, and added his other hand to the slick rope. At the outer edges of the squall, where they now rode, the wind blew not from one direction but seemingly all. Frodo was at risk of being plucked from the railing no matter how determinedly he held on.

"Look at me, Frodo," Gandalf warned."Do not close your eyes."

But even with his eyes open, the world was fading. Devastating heat, stone walls, sulphurous fumes, and harsh shadows cast by reaching flames commanded his senses. In his palm lay the Ring, brighter and more compelling than it had ever been. It knew he had come to destroy it. Worse, it knew he was weak. To it he was bound, and it he must obey. _Put it on. Put it on!_

 _"You will see me!"_ Gandalf commanded.

Light, shockingly intense and blinding, penetrated the suffocating darkness. Staggering, Frodo wrapped both arms about the sheet and clung to it. Seconds later Gandalf reached him. Frodo was lifted down, and for a long moment, held close, heavy robes enveloping him in blessed warmth and comfort. "Ah, my dear Frodo," Gandalf sighed. "It is the sixth of October, is it not?"

Frodo did not even attempt speech. He was chilled to the bone and trembling so violently that his teeth clacked together and his muscles spasmed in protest. His last clear memory was of Gandalf striding toward the stair, carrying him as easily as a bundle of rags. But just before they started downward, Frodo had a glimpse beyond the bow of the ship. A shaft of sunlight cut through the clouds, illuminating a distant land. In Frodo's imagination, it was the country, skirted by brilliantly white shores and covered with verdantly green fields, that he had seen in his dream in Tom Bombadil's house. And then, blinded by remembered smoke and heat, he knew no more.

* * *

_It goes deep._

_So small a vessel to contain so much corruption._

_Will you help him?_

Frodo writhed as something brushed his shoulder.

_The splinters of the Witch King's blade._

_And here. Poison of the Ungoliant's offspring._

_And deeper still: the need for Sauron's Ring, festering._

_Will you help him?_

Frodo struggled to open his eyes. Surrounded by strangely swirling colors, he found himself still in Gandalf's arms, the wizard's closeness no longer welcome or even bearable. Frodo's entire body was on fire, as though he had indeed plunged into the depths of Orodruin and been returned skinless, raw, and wholly ruined. He clamped his jaws shut—for he could hear an abject keening and knew it must come from him—but it was a minor victory. Denied that small release, the pain impossibly intensified. Why must he suffer this? Could they not see that he longed for release?

_He does not wish to be helped, Olórin._

_It is not his choice._

_You would hold him against his will?_

_Yes._

The colors moved even nearer, caressing him—a strange and unsettling sensation that Frodo could not describe. Then they scattered, and came to hover a little above and away from him.

_You come in this ungainly form, Olórin, cradling him as if he were a child. He is not a child. He is a creature of free will._

_Not in this. **I** am his will in this. Will you help him?_

A wash of colors, so purely blended Frodo was drawn to look at it despite himself, seemed to sheathe him. For an instant the pain was heightened beyond enduring. Helplessly, he cried out. No one should be made to undergo this. Not even someone who deser— 

_Ah. There is anger in him. He would be set free, Olórin._

_No._ Then, softly, very near Frodo's ear, Gandalf said, "At least anger is an emotion other than self-pity."

_As you wish. His wounds we can heal. The Ring craving also. The other only he can cure—if he will._

_I ask for nothing more._

_Then leave him now. You will be summoned._

Somehow, just like that, Gandalf was gone. Yet Frodo still hung suspended, supported as gently as if still in Gandalf's arms, while the flow of colors washed over and around him. Outraged, he struggled to speak his disagreement.

 _Do not resist, Frodo Baggins._ The voice inside his head was warm with compassion and understanding. _When you are well, the choice once more will be yours._

All at once, the white-hot pain was gone. He gasped.

_Rest now. Let us do what we will._

In this also, it appeared he was not to be allowed a choice. Blessedly, at last, darkness rose over him, and he sank deep, deep into its depths.

* * *

Frodo woke. A shadowy light filled the room. Above him the ceiling was high and arched, and the bed in which he found himself was enormous. Hushed singing came from a small figure standing before the window. "Sam?" Frodo whispered.

The figure spun round. "So you're awake at last!" It was Bilbo, and he hurried toward him, a broad smile on his wrinkled face. "And of course I'm not Sam, for Sam is still in the Shire, and we are not."

"No," Frodo agreed breathlessly. "Of course not. Have I slept long?" He spent a drowsy moment considering his surroundings.

"Many days. But the Valar willed it. So that you might heal."

"The Valar," Frodo muttered, with a strange tingle of memory. "Where is this place?" He slowly drew himself up, discovering that he had only enough strength to do so, and only for a short time.

"It is my home. In Valinor." Gandalf, clad in pale blue robes, rose from the chair on the other side of the bed, where he had been sitting quietly and unnoticed by Frodo, and stretched out a hand. Frodo took it at once. His trembling was stilled by Gandalf's strength. "Welcome back. How do you feel?"

"I'm all right." At Gandalf's stern look, Frodo summoned a wan smile. "A little weak. But—the pain is gone."

"Good."

"Have a drink of this, Frodo." Bilbo braced him with an arm round his shoulders and handed him a goblet. Frodo drank cautiously. The drink was rich and sweet. Slowly he drained the cup.

"I…don't remember…what happened."

"Many things, Frodo," Gandalf said. He seemed tired. "We did not outrun your anniversary. I had hoped that we might."

"Ah." Frodo closed his eyes. They had been on the White Ship, and something, some compulsion had taken him to the railing. And there—yes, of course: The Ring. "But how did I get _here_?" he asked bewildered.

"Lord Elrond looked after you until we made landfall. And then I petitioned Manwë for the assistance of one of his Eagles. He sent Soronlómë, who bore us, you and me, here to Taniquetil. And here Manwë and Varda, with Estë's skills, set about your healing."

Frodo's eyes widened. "Manwë. Varda. You speak of legends, Gandalf."

"They are not legends to me, Frodo."

He managed a small laugh. "No." Lying back with a sigh, he spoke almost inaudibly. "I could hear them. And understand them, even though they used a language I'd never heard before." He glanced up at Gandalf for confirmation that such a thing could be. It was given to him in the form of an amused nod. "And I saw something like—like tiny lights or fragments of polished stone, all in different colors. Beautiful colors."

"It was in honor to you that you were allowed to see and hear them at all."

"Surely not," Frodo protested lightly. "Because of you, perhaps. Not me."

"There you are wrong. Mostly."

Frodo frowned. "I remember nothing of an Eagle."

"Which does not surprise me. You were quite far gone at that point. I suppose I should have expected it and been better prepared." Gandalf's expression hardened—just a little. "Though you might have warned me."

With a shrug, Frodo muttered, "I thought I was safe."

Gandalf made a small, unintelligible sound, and then murmured, "As did I, my dear Frodo." He regarded him curiously. "Are you still angry?"

At first the question confused him; and, then Frodo felt himself redden: That, he did remember.

"That's enough, Gandalf," Bilbo said, refilling the goblet. "He's only just awakened and is not fit for badinage with you. Few of us are, even at our best."

"As you will, Bilbo," Gandalf conceded. He smiled with affection. "Though I have often found Frodo to be more than capable of defending his views."

* * *

In the days that followed, Frodo slowly came to spend more of his time awake than asleep. He ate, tottered about under Bilbo's or Gandalf's supervision, performed rudimentary ablutions, and read or was read to by Bilbo. Sometimes, when at last he was left alone, he lay quietly, his thoughts traversing this new circumstance and his new condition. For two years he had ever been aware of the Nazgûl wound in his shoulder as well as the dull throb at the joining of neck and shoulder that recalled his encounter with the great spider Shelob, before each flared to vivid agony upon the appointed anniversary. And beneath all had been the wanting of the Ring, perniciously deep and unshiftable, which also had worsened upon those dates.

Now, those pains, those intractable reminders of adventures he had never sought, were utterly _gone_. When Frodo had first awakened, he had felt relief, not unlike that he had known outside the Sammath Naur, when, carried there by Sam, he had roused from his faint to find himself rid of the Ring forever. The relief had since changed to something else; quite what, he could not yet say. Perhaps it was not yet fully formed and therefore unidentifiable. That worried him a little, for should he not be filled with joy? After all, he was here, in the land of the Valar, free of discomfort, and in the company of two of his dearest companions.

But within him, there was an absence of feeling that left him strangely removed, both from himself and those around him.

_He would be set free, Olórin._

_**I** am his will in this._

_"Are you still angry?"_

Gandalf had decided his fate. Had he decided correctly?

* * *

On the fifth day, he awoke in utter stillness. It was verging on dawn; faint stars were visible through the oval window in the center of the ceiling. As they disappeared with the fading darkness, he wondered if one of those lights might be the world he had left behind. And if it were, was there a seeing glass, like the one in Elrond's garden in Rivendell, but more powerful, that might allow him to look upon the Shire? Would he then be able to watch Sam and Rosie and their children as they laughed and played; perhaps even Merry and Pippin grandly riding over The Water in their armor?

Frodo threw off the bedclothes and stepped down onto the warm tiled floor, untwisting his nightshirt from his legs. He walked across the chamber to the opening that led to the garden outside his room. As he placed a foot on dew-damp grass, the glowing upper curve of the sun became visible through a streak of clouds at the rim of the sea far out to the east. The western slopes of what must be Tol Eressëa were cast into deep shadow. Out to the trailing edge of the lawn he went, his heart beating fast with unaccustomed effort, and there he came to lean against a tall tree, where he caught his breath. A bird trilled in the leaves above him: he wondered what it might look like to make such a sweet sound. Then, absently, as he lost himself in the glory of the sun's rising, it occurred to him that perhaps not only birds sang with that sort of voice here.

For the first time since he had awakened five days ago, Frodo gave serious consideration to his surroundings. Here on the slopes of Taniquetil, below the clouds that guarded the Valar's hall, he could look far out over the water. The sea was calm, the waves white-crowned where they soundlessly lapped at gleaming shores, far, far below. The sky in the east was awash with light while in the west the deeper hues of blue began to pale before the coming of the sun. Turning from the brilliance, Frodo gazed back at Gandalf's home, the stone walls garishly painted with the palette of sunrise. It was, he realized suddenly, very like the house in Minas Tirith, where the Fellowship had lived together before their final parting. Just like it, oddly enough, right down to the furnishings in his room and the extravagant tapestries decorating the walls. Sometimes, he imagined that those walls rose into the sky, curving far overhead where they grew thin and formed a huge dome of lace, as if somehow the very air were woven into a protective fabric. At those times, he even imagined that he saw the glittering lights of the Valar, though that was mostly when he had awakened in the night following the trespass of a fretful dream. His imagination, it seemed, had only improved with his experience of adversity. A slow self-mocking smile loosened the set of his mouth, and he gave a resigned sigh.

"There you are!" Bilbo exclaimed. He leaned over the windowsill, his hair standing straight out from his head.

Frodo's smile widened. "Good morning, Bilbo. Did you think you had lost me?"

"I can no longer count of the number of times I've thought that. What are you doing out there?"

Gesturing toward the sun now commanding the horizon, Frodo began to speak, then shrugged. "It's quite something, isn't it, Bilbo?"

"Yes, Frodo," Bilbo agreed tartly. "Quite something. Are you hungry?"

Frodo remembered a time when that would not have been in question. "Why, yes. I believe I am."

"Then come in here and get yourself dressed so we can start our breakfast!"

* * *

Over the next week, Frodo rapidly recovered. When not deeply immersed in Gandalf's incomparable library, he either spent his hours in the gardens taking the sun or venturing farther and farther into the wood and fields that bordered Gandalf's land. He searched often for the bird whose song he had heard that morning and every morning thereafter, but, while he once caught a glimpse of shimmering wings, and once found a single iridescent feather that shone like jewels in the sun, he never spied it whole.

At the end of the week, as they sat at the table in the great hall, Gandalf announced that they would relocate to Tol Eressëa the following day.

"We are not to stay with you, Gandalf?" Bilbo asked.

Gandalf smiled. "We have broken all the rules, Bilbo," he replied. "But now Frodo has regained his vigor and it is time for you both to take up residence on the Island."

"Where then are we to live?"

"With Lord Elrond—unless you choose to reside elsewhere. There is no one in Aman who would turn you away, you know."

"I should love to live with Elrond again," Bilbo declared. "Frodo?"

Frodo studied the wizard with some intensity. "Have we been a great burden, Gandalf?" he asked.

"Not in the least. I should love to have you stay, but it is not within my power to offer that. Besides, there is little here in the way of proper companionship."

"Will we see you from time to time?"

"More often than you might wish, I assure you."

"If Elrond will have us," Frodo said, "I should be honored to live in his house. Besides, his library is almost as good as yours!"

Gandalf laughed. Even though Frodo had heard the Wizard's hearty chuckle from his earliest years, it sometimes surprised him still to hear it. "The honor will be his. Come then, there are preparations to be made!"

The following morning, not long after daybreak, Frodo and Bilbo mounted ponies that stood waiting at the edge of the lawn, while Gandalf welcomed the return of his friend Shadowfax. Slowly they began the descent down the mountainside. The air was warm and moist, the scent of wet grass pungent. Frodo closed his eyes, letting the pony follow docilely in Shadowfax's tracks. He rocked from side to side with each unhurried step, feeling deeply at peace and quietly happy. Bilbo hummed to himself, and the familiarity of that cheerful noise made him smile. He remembered waking in Gandalf's house and mistaking Bilbo for Sam. _"Sam is still in the Shire, and we are not."_ For the first time, Frodo wondered how Bilbo had completed the journey to the Sacred Mountain. There had been no mention of Eagles delivering him. "Bilbo," he said. "I have a question for you. Wake up, Bilbo dear."

"Frodo," Gandalf said, "Open your eyes. It's time to wake up."

"But I am awake. It's Bil—" With dizzying suddenness, Frodo's world shifted. He gave a low moan.

"It is all right, Frodo," Gandalf said calmingly.

"But—how—?" Somehow he had come to lie in the curve of Gandalf's arm and both were astride Shadowfax, whose powerful withers rippled as Frodo frantically stirred. "Gandalf!"

"It's all right," Gandalf repeated, soothingly rubbing the horse's neck. "You've awakened. That's all."

"What do you mean?" Frodo twisted round, leaning far out over Gandalf's protective arm to see behind them. He whimpered. "Where is Bilbo?" The ground where Gandalf's home had stood was grown over with trees and shrubs, and a field of bright flowers lay where his lawn had been. There was no building of stone. "Where is your house?"

"To answer your first question, Bilbo is on the great Island," Gandalf replied, "waiting for us."

"But he was just here!"

"No. That was part of your dream. As was the house you are looking for."

"I don't understand," Frodo said, his tone imploring. "I spoke to Bilbo. He told me—I—the stone walls and floor! I could feel them under my hands and my feet. The books—I read your—"

"Do not fret, Frodo. You have been lying abed all this time, under a strong healing sleep."

"But it was so real!"

"As real as I could make it."

Sick with confusion, Frodo cried out softly, "Why would you do that, Gandalf? Why make me think I was awake when I was not?"

"The Lady Varda suggested it."

 _Varda? Elbereth? Gilthoniel?_ Words failed him.

"She has been quite concerned about you," Gandalf said.

Exhaling sharply, Frodo asked, "Why should she suggest such a thing?

"Because in dreams, there can be peace and comfort."

"But I—has it _all_ been a dream, then?"

"Not all." Gandalf's gaze seemed drawn toward the mountain's peak. "You were failing, my dear friend. Even though your body was healed, your spirit was slipping away." Brow arched, he said implacably, "I would not let you go. You needed time to complete your recovery, but you could find the strength only if you believed that everything was all right."

Frodo whispered, _"'I am his will in this.'_ "

"Ah. Yes, I said that. It was not a part of your dream." His arm tightened round Frodo's shoulder. "Do not think too ill of me.

"I don't know what to think." Frodo clutched at Gandalf's sleeve. "Why wake me now? Why not wait until we were on the Island? I would never have known otherwise."

"Because you would not have seen _this_. Something no other hobbit will ever see." He gestured up at the distant peak just as the wreathing mists were shredded by sharp, gusting winds. "Taniquetil and the Hall of Ilmarin."

The Hall, revealed in the bright morning light, actually comprised several tall, white towers encompassing a central tower taller than all of the rest. A vague recollection of marble walls hung with great tapestries and an airy dome that brushed the heavens surfaced in Frodo's mind. With it came the sound of a mournful voice: _So small a vessel to contain so much corruption._ "The Valar. That was—they were—not a dream?"

"Yes. They were not a dream. Remember what you now see, Frodo. Bilbo will want to know everything."

Mention of Bilbo, as nothing else, brought Frodo's world back to normality. He subsided weakly in Gandalf's embrace. "How long, Gandalf? How long have we been here?"

"A little over two weeks. Just as you believed." The wizard's chest rose and fell against Frodo's back. "But it is time now to move on. We have yet a ways to go."

With a nudge against Shadowfax's flanks, Gandalf turned the great horse back to the stone road. Frodo cast a last look up the mountainside, but already heavy mists were swirling round the mansion, concealing it once more. Ahead, the path disappeared as it wound down the mountainside. The air was thick with the scent of new flowers warming in the sun, and the trees, massive mallorns, greater than anything he had seen in Lórien, steadily rustled as a current of wind explored the widespread branches.

On the edge of resentment, Frodo muttered, "Is there _anything_ to eat?"

Gandalf laughed. "Of course." He reached into the satchel hanging off his shoulder, and drew forth a wafer wrapped in a familiar binding. "Eat the whole thing, Frodo. You need it."

They rode for some while unspeaking, Frodo's jaws working solely to demolish his meal as he chewed and swallowed, chewed and swallowed. He wasn't sure how to feel, though betrayal, of a sort, loomed near the surface. Yet his dream self had deftly categorized his state of being: he felt whole again. He was utterly undisturbed, like a snowy field on a windless day, and the beating of his heart felt _right_ , not labored, and when he closed his eyes, there was a serene darkness, not the inescapable glow of flames.

The tattoo of Shadowfax's hooves on the road and the sure steady rhythm of his gait were soothing. Finches twittered in the branches and darted overhead. Pheasants roamed in the tall grass at the edge of the wood, not frightened by their passage. Frodo caught glimpses of field mice tussling together, their tails whipping round and round as they grappled and rolled. A hedgehog lazily crossed before them, seemingly as assured that the horse's hooves would not tread upon it as Frodo was himself. Not even in the Shire had creatures been so much at their ease.

Mid-morning, Gandalf brought Shadowfax to a halt. He dismounted, and handed Frodo down beside him. Frodo felt as though his legs had turned to jelly. He stood a moment, leaning heavily against Shadowfax's flank, waiting for his strength to return. Gandalf strolled into the shade, and sat at the base of a tree. He pulled a bundle out of his pocket and unwrapped another flat of waybread from its mallorn leaf pocket. "Are you hungry again?" he asked.

Frodo's stomach answered for him, a long rolling rumble. Leaving the security of Shadowfax's side, he carefully staggered to Gandalf's chosen spot and arrived panting for breath. Grateful for the hand that steadied him, Frodo sank into the grass and waited for the sparkles to leave his vision. "Drink this first," Gandalf murmured, and pushed a small flask into Frodo's trembling palm. "Slowly, mind." Without Gandalf's supporting fingers, Frodo would have spilled the lot. He took a sip, then another. He recognized it as _miruvor_ , which Elrond had sent with the Fellowship on its journey out of Rivendell. The shakiness lessened, then subsided altogether. Frodo filled his lungs and sat quietly while the over-fast beating of his heart slowed to its normal rate.

"Better?"

"Yes."

"Try this, then."

Frodo took the proffered corner of waybread and nibbled at its edge. He chewed languidly, letting his attention wander as he gradually began to feel more himself again. "Has it been two weeks since I was on my feet?" he wondered aloud.

"Yes."

Frodo shook his head. "Those dreams were so real!"

"As I wished they should be. Look." He gestured toward a fox that had sidled out of the grass a few feet away. It unhurriedly returned their attention then trotted toward the road. Frodo was beginning to believe that fear did not exist in Aman. But upon the thought, an enormous shadow fell across the road. The fox, suddenly one long streak of reddish-brown, stretched out legs and tail and disappeared into the thicket on the other side of the path. Instinctively shrinking nearer to Gandalf, Frodo peered upward. There, flying low overhead, was an Eagle. _An Eagle._ Frodo had cut his teeth on stories of their kind, but this one was surely greater than anything Shire legends had concocted. It came down in a whoosh of air, landing several yards away. Shadowfax merely twitched his tail, but only because the wave of wind had disturbed it. The Eagle cocked its head to one side and fixed its great, bead-like eye on Gandalf, who bent his head in greeting. The Eagle did likewise. Then it turned and raised its wings and powerfully lifted itself into the sky.

"You told me," Frodo gasped, "that an Eagle carried us to the top of the Mountain. Soronlómë. Was that—?"

"Yes, that was he."

"Why didn't he speak?"

"Perhaps he had nothing to say. Finish your lembas and then you can rest for a bit with your head in my lap."

Even in the shade the day was warm. Filled with food and a soothing drink and exhausted by his first efforts following illness and two weeks of bed rest, Frodo was overtaken by a strong urge to sleep. He rolled onto his side and lay with his head on Gandalf's thigh. The wizard lightly rested a hand upon his shoulder, and almost at once Frodo slept  
.  
He did not dream.

* * *

Fingers brushed the hair off Frodo's brow, gently breaking his sleep. Blinking slowly, Frodo peered upward through his lashes. Behind Gandalf's great white mane the sky was lustrously blue and clear. Nearer, Gandalf's lustrous blue eyes studied him expressionlessly.

"All right?" the wizard asked.

"Hm." Frodo drew himself up, pausing a moment while his head steadied. "Did I sleep too long?"

"How do you feel?"

Frodo considered. "Much better."

"Then you did not sleep too long. Hungry?"

"Hm!"

In the quiet beneath the tree, Frodo ate and watched insects darting through the air and bounding lightly amongst the blades of grass. A ladybird landed on his ankle and ticklingly wandered downward through the thicket of hair before leaping off and disappearing into a less treacherous forest of grass. Frodo finished his meal and climbed to his feet. Familiarly leaning on Gandalf for support, he gained his balance, breathing the clean air in and in until his lungs protested.

A few minutes later, they continued on their way. Frodo was surprised to learn that he had slept only a short time, for he felt refreshed and strong. As they wound their way down the mountainside, always keeping to the eastern shoulders, Gandalf called frequent halts so that Frodo might unbend his legs. The day grew steadily warmer, and baked by the sun, the grass more pungent and the flowers sweeter. Frodo, too, began to feel far less fragile. A while after noon, they took lunch by the side of a trickling rill. There Frodo crouched down to wash his face and throat. Queen Arwen's gift swung forward out of his shirt. He caught it before it could brush the surface of the water and gazed thoughtfully at it. Then he laid it again close to his breast, and protecting it from harm, bent forward to dip water out of the stream with his free hand.

Gandalf watched him as he waded back through the tall grass. "You're smiling," the wizard said. Frodo held out his hand. Gandalf's brows quirked, but he took it at once. "I'm not angry anymore," Frodo said. To his surprise, a sharp brightness rose in Gandalf's eyes. He nodded. Frodo stepped inside the curve of his arms and was held in a close embrace. That had not been part of the dream, then, either.

"My dear Frodo," Gandalf whispered.

Near the knees of the great mountain, they began to encounter habitation: structures of every kind, though mostly high and airy and strongly built with the frequent use of stone and marble. They were the homes of the Vanyar, Gandalf explained, and the stones glinting here and there were brilliant jewels. "Fëanor's baubles," Gandalf muttered. As they drew abreast of each home, its occupant, or several, would appear, their eyes searching the riders. Bows were exchanged but seldom words. Frodo felt oddly conspicuous and not a little uncomfortable, for the Elves, while courteous with and knowing of Gandalf, stared at Frodo as if he were a thing of wonder.

"They have never seen Halflings," Gandalf said. "But they know your story and honor you."

From here the path was better kept and wider, and as the sun traveled toward the west, they fell into the shadow of Taniquetil. A rider passed them on a long-legged bay, waving as he passed and greeting Gandalf by his Valian name.

"I understood that," Frodo remarked, "but the words sounded unusual."

"Rather like the hobbits in Bree compared to those in Hobbiton?"

"Yes."

"A different dialect, I suppose. The Elves of Valinor have been separated from their kin in Middle-earth for Ages, Frodo. Your study on the White Ship was to the good, it would seem."

Frodo nodded wryly. "It would."

It soon became apparent that the rider had gone ahead to announce their arrival, for the numbers of bystanders increased. Many of them offered gifts of food and drink, which were directed more toward Frodo than Gandalf. Moved, Frodo accepted far too many apples and sweetcakes, so that his arms were nearly overflowing. Gandalf merely laughed and handed him his bag and helped him to fill it.

Halfway down the mountain, Shadowfax turned westward and soon brought them out of shadow into the slanting light of late day. Before long, they were traversing the ravine that Gandalf pronounced the _Calacirya_. Here they met Elves who lived in quiet hamlets alongside astonishingly tall towers. Gandalf was known to them, and the Elves bowed their heads as Shadowfax strode past. They were met with the occasional offer of food, and the smell of some of it was too wonderful for Frodo to resist. They no longer broke their journey with rest periods; Gandalf seemed bound for some destination by a certain time. The thought did not concern Frodo and he did not question it. Pippin had said that Shadowfax rode more smoothly than the gentlest of breezes, and he had not been wrong. Replete and utterly at peace, Frodo eventually drowsed in Gandalf's arms. He stirred often, gazing out through barely parted eyelids, for there was a part of him that wanted to see everything. The watchtowers in particular commanded his attention, and he sensed them even when more than half asleep. The walls of the ravine were far higher, but the towers, though tiny by comparison, stabbed into the sky like few structures Frodo had ever seen. Even the White Tower in Minas Tirith had not so awed him, and Frodo had once thought it the noblest he would ever behold.

The day gradually gave way to dusk. As the cool mists of night began to drift down upon them the ground turned upward, and there in the darkening distance was Túna, with Tírion forming a wreath of flickering light at its summit. Their passage was lit by Elves holding candles or lanterns. Some walked beside them for a short way, others stood and watched until they had passed. Looking behind, Frodo saw the lights go out, one after another, so that it seemed he gazed into nothingness. When he mentioned it to Gandalf, the wizard murmured, "They still prefer the light of the stars."

The road continued broad and well groomed. It split near the base of Túna, which was no more than a hill in comparison to the mighty Taniquetil. Shadowfax took the lower path, which skirted the ancient stronghold. Frodo found it harder and harder to keep his eyes open, and at last, yawning violently, he slipped into a deep slumber, the smell of the sea growing strong in his senses.

"Come, Frodo," Gandalf said, a hand on his shoulder. "We must dismount."

Frodo shook himself awake on a sudden deep breath. Salt spray was in the air, and his face was damp. As he looked about, Gandalf deftly swung a leg over Shadowfax's rump and stepped onto the stone quay.

What at first Frodo took to be a swarm of fireflies hovering in a line, he slowly discerned was a number of Elves, lit tapers glimmering in their hands. "Where are we?" he whispered.

"Aqualondë," Gandalf replied gravely, and nodded to the ones watching them. "They have come to see you on your way." He lifted Frodo down and set him on the stone at his side. Frodo wavered, but Gandalf remained close by, and he leaned on him until the world steadied.

A ship, smaller than the one that had carried them Over Sea, waited at the quay, its sails reefed. Frodo lifted his face into the breeze, which seemed to run parallel to the land, and his hair rose and streamed out behind him. The damp freshness brought him fully awake.

Gandalf inclined his head to the watchers and Frodo sketched a bow, cautious lest he overbalance. The Elves returned the courtesy, their lights dipping in the night, easing the darkness. Then with a gentle, herding gesture, Gandalf guided him to the connecting plank; Shadowfax clopped in their wake. As soon as they were aboard, the ship cast off, the sails unfurled to catch the wind and so carry them safely and at no great speed out of the confines of the bight.

Wide-eyed, Frodo stood on the quarterdeck and watched the land, a dark mass against the starlit sky, recede as they made way. The ship angled outward from the coast, two or three points off the wind, the port bow rising on the swell. He ventured toward the mast, where Gandalf and Shadowfax swayed with the motion of the ship. As he went, he opened the bag filled with a variety of fruit, some of which had taken bruises from their casual handling, and several small cakes, each wrapped in thin fabric. The rise and fall of the ship as it rode athwart the waves, though rough, surprisingly did not stir discomfort, so Frodo chose a dense cake, his fingers guiding him, and began to eat.

In his eventful life, he had known many emotions, ranging from complacency to ebullience to mortal terror to an exhaustion so extreme it had nearly taken his life. Now, as he stood on the deck of a ship beyond the confines of the world he had been born into, munching on an Elven sweetcake, the brisk, wet air thickening his curls and stinging his cheeks, he knew a profound contentment. He felt at one with himself in a way that he had not for many years—perhaps since before Bilbo had gone, leaving him Bag End and the Ring. Perhaps, even before then, back to the time before he had left Brandy Hall—before the Ring had become part of his daily life. He had never shared Bilbo's adventuring spirit, though he had greatly desired to know more of the world outside the Shire. His months during the journey to Mordor had rarely brought him joy, far less comfort, it being a journey of necessity and one not of his choice. He had returned stronger in mind but weaker in spirit, and uncomfortably at odds within himself. This now—this adventure—might suit his undemanding spirit. Here, he was safe, protected. Nothing would ever be asked of him that he could not—

A soft mouth lipped at his hand. He looked round to find Shadowfax's long head stretched over his shoulder. He opened his fingers and allowed the horse to steal the remains of the treat. Then he reached into the bag and fetched out an apple. The animal took it with grave acceptance. While the horse crunched the fruit to bits, Frodo rested back against him.

"Do you wish to lie down, Frodo?" Gandalf asked. He lifted the bag from Frodo's hand and rummaged around inside it.

"No, thank you, Gandalf," Frodo replied. "I find this very pleasant indeed."

"We are making only a few knots—there being little wind and it blowing in a contrary manner—so, the captain tells me."

"Does Bilbo know we are coming?"

"I expect he does. Elrond will have told him." Gandalf chewed idly on a cake. "Now, Shadowfax, you will be sick and I will get the blame. I think you have had enough for today."

About to ask for another cake, Frodo realized he also had had enough and clasped his hands together before him. Evening gave way to deep night. Once, casting a long look back through the channel spray, Frodo spied a dim light. Gandalf informed him that it was the lantern of Mindon Eldaliéva on Túna.

Frodo was puzzled. "Why didn't we embark from there? We seem to have gone far out of our way."

"Because there the waters are treacherous. Though you cannot see it, we are sailing north and west of Eressëa to come in alongside her eastern shore. We shall reach Avallonë by dawn."

"Avallonë," Frodo murmured. "Dream words."

"No more dreams, Frodo, other than of your own devising. I promised you."

With a quick smile, Frodo said, "It is a waking dream for me, Gandalf. Everything must seem quite familiar to you."

Gandalf nodded. "Yes. Very familiar. Even after an Age away."

Regarding the wizard in the pale light of the ship's fore lantern, Frodo wondered how Gandalf could have left his home for so long. _Work._ It was work that had kept him in Middle-earth, work that had made him a friend of Aragorn and Bilbo, work that had taken him into the abyss in Khazad-dum, work that had brought him back. Work had taken Frodo away from his home, too, but once his work had been done, his home had been his no longer. What did it mean to Gandalf to be _home_?

"You are looking very serious, Frodo," Gandalf remarked.

Frodo raised an absent smile. "Only thinking." He stared out into the darkness. He had known hobbits who had not been able to live along the Brandywine, the vapors off the river bringing them constant congestion of the lungs. They had moved into the hills, leaving their homes, and there had dug their holes in drier soil, and there they had fared well. It was, it seemed, the same for him. In Middle-earth, the wounds that could not be healed would have brought an early end to his days. Here, he had been made whole, and here he could live out the years originally allotted to him. But would it ever be _home_?

Some time in the middle watch of the night, Frodo fell asleep, sitting on a bench in the shadow of the stern. He roused to the soft speech of the crew and the changed motion of the ship. Before, the ship had crossed the waves, but now it rode before them, a more amiable association by far. The stars had dimmed amidst the paling sky, and in the west the Island rose out of the water, its white shores sharp contrast against the green hills that climbed inland.

Frodo sat up, Gandalf's robe slipping off his shoulders. Shadowfax nuzzled his ear, startling him. "Good morning, Shadowfax," he said thickly, and patted the horse's jaw. Gandalf, standing behind him, smiled and said, "Time to run your fingers through your hair and splash some water on your cheeks, Frodo. You are about to be greeted."

"Oh, dear," Frodo winced. Then, pretending it was the prospect of washing up that dismayed him, he asked, "Water?" Gandalf pointed to a rain barrel at the other side of the deck. Yawning, Frodo stumbled to it and began his sleepy ablutions.

The ship glided into the bay, its canvas reduced to slow their passage. The haven awaited them, the quay jutting far out into the water, its stone surface beginning to shine as the sun crested the horizon. The ship came alongside and dropped anchor. Many Elves—more than Frodo could count—stood there, their fine robes stirring in the morning breeze. His eye scanned the throng quickly, but the one he searched for was not among them.

"Come, Frodo," said Gandalf kindly. "They wish only to honor you."

"I don't see Bilbo."

"Perhaps he is awaiting you at Elrond's house."

The gang-board was laid. Gandalf ushered Frodo onto it with a hand behind him, providing support and nearness. Shadowfax walked unperturbedly onto the plank, as though sailing and disembarking ship were a daily occurrence. The courtesies began, and Frodo, who had learned a great deal of Elvish on board the White Ship, comported himself appropriately. He understood more than he had before, and responded with bows or smiles or a few particular phrases as needed. All the while, he looked for a small, white-haired hobbit.

The Elves fell into step behind them as they processed off the quay into the beautifully structured, open-air transit house. There they were met by Galadriel and Elrond, who stood beside a team of horses and a large carriage. "Welcome, Frodo," Elrond said. "I am very pleased to see you recovered."

"Thank you, Lord Elrond." Frodo bowed to Galadriel, who smiled down at him.

"There is someone who has been waiting most impatiently for you," Galadriel said, and opened the door to the carriage.

"Is that you at last, Frodo?" Bilbo said in a querulous voice. "I'd almost given up on you, lad."

Frodo climbed into the carriage and was taken into a surprisingly strong embrace. "Hullo, Bilbo!" He returned Bilbo's hug with as much strength as he dared. "I didn't mean to keep you waiting."

"Don't be silly." Bilbo patted his cheek, beaming. "You were in a rare bad state." He searched Frodo's face. "But the shadow is gone." His aged eyes filled and he blinked hard, his jaw quivering. "It is gone at last."

"Bilbo, don't," Frodo whispered.

"It's nothing. Nothing." He sniffed loudly and glared through the open door. "Come along then. We have a morning's ride before us, and I haven't had my breakfast!"

They ate on the way, though Bilbo fell into a weary sleep almost before they had left the harbor. Frodo studied him worriedly. Elrond handed him a still-warm piece of bread and a small wedge of cheese.

"He insisted on coming," Elrond said, correctly interpreting Frodo's expression. "I feared he would fret himself into his bed."

"That's because he wanted to hear Frodo's news," Gandalf said unconcernedly.

Elrond's features lightened. "He will be most interested in hearing it," he agreed.

Sitting close beside Bilbo, with the elderly hobbit's head resting heavily on his shoulder, Frodo put paid to his meal, scarcely noticing taste or texture. Then he folded his hands in his lap and struggled to resist a massive yawn. With a quick apologetic glance round at his companions, he closed his eyes. Comforted by Bilbo's closeness and the living warmth of him, Frodo sank like a stone into the depths of slumber.

* * *

Bilbo was in his element. He was telling tales, and he was the center of attention. His Elvish, while in the main Sindarin, was nevertheless exceptionally sophisticated, and he was a thoroughly good storyteller. Frodo, though full to bursting, continued to pick at his meal, entertained along with the others.

Light filled the great hall of Elrond's house, daylight shining in through archways and unglazed windows, open flame writhing in fireplaces and twisting upon the wicks of candles and oil lamps. Frodo sat at the head table, separated by one from Elrond himself. The one was Gandalf, and Frodo was grateful as always for his imperturbability. Across from him, seated beside the Lady Celebrían, was Bilbo, his face pinkly suffused with happiness and the effects of a good deal of wine. He was describing the passage of the White Ship from Middle-earth to Aman from the perspective of a hobbit. His humor and self-deprecation raised smiles from all, save the Lady Celebrían, who watched him without a hint of expression, which Frodo, perhaps mistakenly, interpreted as hidden dislike. They had met only this evening, just before sitting down with the rest of Elrond's guests. Her eyes were a piercing shade of grey—or perhaps they were clear and reflected the silver of her hair, a gift inherited from her father.

She had greeted Frodo and Bilbo with a gracious nod of the head, but her gaze, inescapable and faintly unsettling, had lingered, and there had been darkness in it. Then she had whispered, with some fervor, _"Orcs."_

For a moment, Frodo had stood frozen, misbelieving his ears. With a last, searching look, she had walked away, guided by her husband to greet those Elves newly come from Middle-earth. Frodo, shaken, had said to Bilbo, "She called us _orcs_!"

But Bilbo had shaken his head. "Not us, Frodo. She meant you."

"I'm not an orc!" Frodo had hissed.

"Of course not. But you—" Before he could say more, a fellow traveler had approached, and Bilbo had been distracted.

Afterward, each time Frodo had felt the weight of the Lady's attention, he wondered what Bilbo had been going to say. His upbringing came to his defense: he knew his courtesies and employed them with ease.

Inevitably the evening waned and the numbers in the great hall began to thin. Bilbo was now more than half-dozing in his chair. The day, despite having been met late, had quite worn him out.

"May I escort you back to your apartments?" Gandalf asked. Frodo nodded and gingerly let himself down from the chair that had put him on a level with his fellows. Then he went round to gently wake Bilbo and help him safely to the floor.

"A lovely dinner," Gandalf said. He nodded to both Elrond and Celebrían, waited while Frodo and Bilbo—the latter suffocating a yawn—said their good nights, then spread his arms like a bird protecting her young and waved them back the winding way they had come.

They had been given a suite of rooms that backed into the hillside, so they had privacy and access as well as the comfort of the earth. The kitchen window looked over the wide central courtyard; the entry hall, a small garden; and the study, a lawn that met the edge of a wood, which Frodo had already noted to be sun-dappled by day and very close by night. Barely a foot inside their door, Bilbo was taken over by Ellhach, an Elf who had accompanied them on the White Ship (though Frodo did not remember him), and upon arrival, had offered to see to their care—or so Bilbo had informed Frodo.

"Good night, Bilbo," Frodo said, and smiled to himself at Bilbo's sleepy rejoinder. "Will you take a dish of tea with me, Gandalf?"

"I should love to, Frodo, if you promise you will not drop head-first into your cup."

"I shall try not to."

In the kitchen, Frodo found water already on the boil and a pot warm to his touch. "He was expecting us," he murmured with surprise, pouring the water onto a clutch of leaves and replacing the lid.

"I daresay," Gandalf agreed, settling himself in a large chair—large, even by Elvish standards—beside the table and drawing his pipe from the sleeve of his robe. Smaller chairs had been placed there as well, and Frodo sank into one of these with a sigh. "You are still very tired," Gandalf observed.

"Perhaps I have slept too much," Frodo replied. Much of the previous day's journey had passed in spates of sleep, interrupted by brief stops for refreshment. On those rare occasions when Frodo had kept his eyes open for longer than a few minutes, he had charted the land they were passing through by way of extended peeks from beneath the window flap. It was fresh and green, this new country of theirs, starred with flowers of every size and shape and hue, and the grass tangily bruised by the sun's heat. The shivery heights of Taniquetil and equally fresh breezes of the coast had not prepared him for the imposing warmth of the Island, for it was clearly summer here—the Shire had been bundling up against the first severe gusts of winter when he had taken sail.

* * *

They had traveled south and west, following an ancient road that gradually, though a series of switchbacks, climbed higher and higher. Once or twice, Frodo had even caught sight of the sea—an expanse of glinting blue cut across with white breakers—which had quickly been hidden by another fold of hillside. They had arrived as the sun was reaching her zenith. Frodo had not been able to appreciate the full wonder of Elrond's home, but was hurried across the wide courtyard and wider bordering lawns to the apartments he was to share with Bilbo. There the hobbits had eaten a small—by hobbit standards—meal, drunk goblets of fresh, cool water until their parching was only a memory, had a delightful dish of cheese and fruit to fill their still empty corners, then been shown to their rooms. Divested of jacket, vest, and breeches, Frodo had not even attempted to remove the remaining dust of his journey, but had crawled into bed and closed his eyes, and had succumbed to sleep at once.

Nothing had been allowed to disturb him, and he had not awakened until this morning, when the sun had begun her glide across the south-facing study, the one with the garden beneath its window, and the light had slanted across the central corridor and through his open bedroom door. Upon hearing him arise, Ellhach had appeared with a tray of tea and thickly buttered bread, which Frodo had immediately consumed. Bilbo was still abed, he had been informed, but a bath had been prepared for Frodo, if he desired it. He had desired it above all things, the grime and weariness of the previous day yet clinging to him as unwelcome as the residue of his heavy slumber. In the warm water his spirit had healed and his strength renewed. Attired in fresh clothing, his curls scrubbed clean, Frodo had found his way to the kitchen, and eschewing the formality of the dining room for the rough table and chairs that resided there had taken a breakfast that would have met with Sam's approval.

Afterward, while Bilbo still slept, Frodo had wandered about his new home, poking his head into each room, peering out each window, and inspecting the lawn, the garden, and the courtyard in turn. He had not known what to expect, but this far exceeded even his hopes, which had not been in any way large. For all that the shivering, green wood had drawn his eye, by mid-morning he had begun to yawn again, and at last, encouraged by Ellhach, had returned to his room for another bout of sleep.

It had been Bilbo who had extracted him from the depths, a rested, delighted Bilbo, the sight of whom had filled Frodo with silent joy. "You're awake at last, sleepyhead," Bilbo had said. "It's past lunch, you know. Elrond has planned a dinner to welcome us, but there will be no food until late, if I know him. We'll need something to keep the embers glowing."

Ellhach had foreseen their hunger. In their shared sitting room, which lay in the cool embrace of the hillside, they had sat before the fire and downed bread hot from the oven and heavy with seeds and nuts; a variety of cheeses; an equally wide-ranging selection of fruit; all complemented by a mild ale that satisfied their thirst without compromising their intellect. There, warm and full, they had sat with their feet propped up before the fire and drowsed the afternoon away.

It was Gandalf who had chivvied them from their leisure, ensuring that they did not arrive late to a party that was being held in their honor. It had been he, too, who had introduced them to many new faces, and smoothed the conversation when Frodo and Bilbo found themselves stared at with the intensity reserved for something rare and stunningly unexpected.

* * *

Frodo took milk from the cold shelf and poured a small amount into two mugs. Resting back with his palms against the sideboard, he gazed with affection upon his old friend. Gandalf merely raised his brows, inviting comment. "Are we really so odd-looking, Bilbo and I?"

"Unfamiliar," Gandalf corrected. "Many whom you met tonight have never heard of hobbits, much less known that you and your kin and kind are responsible for the undoing of Sauron, of whom they have heard far too much."

"Will I have to tell the tale forever?" Frodo had been invited to do so several times in the past few hours, but had postponed the doing with as much grace as he could muster.

Gandalf smiled at his plaintive tone. "Practice your Elvish; put it all down on paper. And then you will need tell it only once or twice a year on special occasions."

Frodo gave an exasperated snort. "You do not comfort me."

"That is not my job. Well, not my only job."

Setting the pot on the table, Frodo said, "The Lady Celebrían called me an orc."

"Did she?"

"That is, she said 'orcs,' but Bilbo was convinced she meant only me."

"Bilbo was undoubtedly right."

With some distress, Frodo exclaimed, "I am not a single orc, and certainly not several. What could she mean by that?" He dropped back into his chair.

"Did you never read Bilbo's translations? He did give them to you in Rivendell before you returned to the Shire, did he not?"

"Yes, he gave them to me, and no, I did not read them: there was never time. Every spare moment was given to completing the tale so many people still want me to tell."

"Elrond must have said something to her of your experiences. You see, she too was taken by orcs and treated most barbarously. You cannot have forgotten how her sons Elrohir and Elladan continue to seek vengeance against them. They rescued her after a week, but not before she had been poisoned and grievously ill used. Elrond healed her wounds, but it was not enough; she continued to fail. A year later, she came over sea, and here she has remained alone, awaiting her husband and her children."

Frodo stared at him with dismay.

"The tea, Frodo," Gandalf said kindly, "do not let it stew."

Collecting himself, Frodo gave the pot a swirl. A steaming, amber brew filled their cups, directed by Frodo's not altogether steady hand. "How dreadful, Gandalf," he said, wrapping both sets of fingers about his mug and leaning forward with elbows propped on the tabletop. Choosing his words with care, he asked, "Do you find her healed?"

"Sadly, no." Gandalf took a sip and closed his eyes, making a quiet sound of approval. "Though I imagine you understand that better than I."

Frodo frowned. "They terrified me," he whispered. "But they were under strict orders not to make sport, not to…" He veered from the memory. "A week of that! It's a wonder she survived with any wits at all."

"She is the daughter of Galadriel. She is made of her mother's strength."

"She seems…hurt. Wounded. Can't the Valar help her?"

"They have helped her, Frodo." Gandalf set down his mug and gave a very normal-sounding hum of pleasure. "Only she can heal such wounds." He smiled ruefully. "Just as you alone can heal yours."

An unpleasant sensation curled in Frodo's belly. "I'm quite all right, Gandalf."

"Hm."

Frodo would not pretend not to understand what Gandalf alluded to; but he would not invite him to discuss it openly. Undoubtedly the wizard had foreseen the damage that must linger, a damage that could not be plucked from one's being in the way that poisonous festering could be made uncorrupt, or the remnants of evil metal witched from sealed flesh. And so they sat silently and surprisingly companionably for all that each understood the other's purpose. When his mug was empty, Gandalf took his leave, and Frodo went with him to the courtyard. There they stood under the star-filled sky, Frodo yawning behind his hand.

"To bed with you," Gandalf said. "Tomorrow you may be allowed to visit Elrond's library."

"If it is leaf to vine as overwhelming as the one he left behind in Rivendell, I shall be put to the test."

"Leaf to vine? Not at all." Gandalf winked and walked across the stones to his own apartments.

Frodo gave the stars a last pensive glance, his mind all at once on Sam, his own dear Sam, who had once sung of the comfort of stars and in the doing had brought comfort to them both. And then he went inside and to bed.

* * *

The next day, after first and second undisturbed breakfasts, Bilbo led Frodo on a tour of their new surroundings. They did pass through the library—not at all leaf to vine, indeed: no, far more leaf to forest—but they marched past without stopping and Frodo was allowed no chance to introduce himself to any of the vast number of volumes at home there. As they went, they were accosted again and again by new and old acquaintances. By lunchtime they had been herded into the Great Hall, and there, held by savory aromas, they perched on tall chairs while wine and bread and succulent meats trimmed with roots and herbs were served.

"Oh, my dear fellow," Bilbo said when he had eaten his fill. "I believe a chair in the sun, where I might sleep off a little of this excess calls. Will you join me?"

"Yes," Frodo said. "For a little while. And then I must return to the library—for _it_ calls to me. Shall I bring you something back?"

"Capital idea," Bilbo murmured. He eased himself down from the chair, then stood a moment leaning upon its sinuously carved arm. A slow, delighted smile spread across his mouth.

"Bilbo?"

The older hobbit gazed up at him with glee. "We are in _Valinor_ , Frodo!" He giggled like a youth, then pattered across the floor, waving and hallooing as he went.

Chairs awaited them in the shade of the tree in their own garden. Ellhach appeared almost as soon as they sat down, carrying a foldable table that he set up between them; he covered it with small cakes and biscuits and a pot of tea and all the necessary tea things, including mugs and milk in a delicately shaped decanter.

"Now you must tell me everything," Bilbo said, tipping milk into their mugs. He waggled his fingers imperiously at Frodo to pour the tea.

"About what, Bilbo?"

Bilbo's voice fell to a hush. "About the Valar. About what you saw. Everything, Frodo!"

Amid sunshine and a warm breeze that might have blown down from the North Moors, Frodo spoke of the marble edifice with the unique lacework dome, the imposing towers striving upwards into the clouds, the formless colors that had spoken regarding his welfare in kind but removed tones, and the dream fabric that Gandalf had wrapped him in and the reasons he had given for weaving it.

"The old rogue," Bilbo muttered. "Tell me again about Varda. Describe her exactly."

With some regret, Frodo told him what he could, but he had come to doubt his own surety of recollection. When he recalled the ride down the mountain on Shadowfax's broad back, he was more certain of events, so that the creatures, fields, rills, and precipices were described with exactness.

"You saw an Eagle at last," Bilbo said with satisfaction. "Your due, surely, after being carried twice with no memory of them."

"He was enormous, Bilbo," Frodo said. "Greater, I believe, than those you described to me before."

"You are not wrong, Frodo. They are the Eagles of Manwë, their lineage undiluted by years in Middle-earth. Just so would Ungoliant have been a giant beside your terrible Shelob, though she was a monster compared to the brutes I fought in Mirkwood." Bilbo gave a snort of laughter. "You have gone quite pale!"

"A creature larger than Shelob is beyond imagining, Bilbo—not with any comfort, anyway."

"So I should think. Describe Tirion to me instead."

It was during this telling that Bilbo drifted into a replete sleep, his hands folded in his lap, his chin burrowing into his chest. Frodo went inside and fetched a pillow for Bilbo's head, then left him to find his way back to Elrond's library. There he soon lost himself amid tall bookcases and chairs cushioned with wool-stuffed pillows. He was studying a map of Beleriand in the glow of a wall sconce, when the scent of primrose told him of another's presence.

"Here," a cool voice said. It was the Lady Celebrían. She held a slim book out to him. Frodo glanced at it, his mind working too slowly to decipher the Elvish title at once, then back up at her. Her expression told him nothing. With a slight bow—but without unlocking their joined gazes—he accepted the book. For an instant she held onto it as well, still looking deep into Frodo's eyes. Then, without a word of parting, she turned away, her robes whispering across the polished wood floor. When she had gone, Frodo frowned down at the leather outerwork. This time he translated the characters with ease: _The Valaquenta_.

"That is Elrond's own translation from the Quenyan," Bilbo observed, warming his toes by the fire in their shared sitting room, "or I am much mistaken. It is his hand, I believe."

"The Lady Celebrían lent it to me."

"Kind of her. Though you already know the work as you must surely have read my translation of it from the Sindarin."

Apologetically, Frodo admitted, "Well, I would have, had there been time."

Bilbo arched a brow at him. "Time. Of course. You were occupied with an important work of your own, weren't you? Ah—I would love to have read your recounting of the war of the Ring, Frodo. Was it very long?"

"Long enough to satisfy even you, my dear Bilbo. Scarcely a detail was left out—though, whether that will prove a blessing or a torment for readers to come, neither you nor I shall ever know."

Bilbo shook his head at Frodo's gentle irony. "I propose that we shall. Samwise will bring us all the news some day, now won't he?"

Frodo's smile faded a little. "Perhaps."

"Read it to me, lad," Bilbo said, lighting his pipe. "If you like, I shall help you as you go."

"Thank you, Bilbo," Frodo said gratefully. "I will wear you out, I'm afraid; but I must learn the languages of the Elves as quickly as possible—Elrond's library is filled with it!"

* * *

A few days later, having mastered _The Valaquenta_ , Frodo, accompanied by Bilbo, returned to the library. While Bilbo sat at a table with a large tome and a mug of tea, Frodo wandered from one huge bookcase to another. Eventually, having gathered an armful, he went into another chamber that was brilliant with light cascading through a glassed opening overhead. Searching for a chair, he spied something in a large alcove that made him stare: it was, he was quite certain, a palantír, though a little paler and perhaps a little larger than the one shown to him by Aragorn in Minas Tirith. It rested on a bed of thick silk upon a plinth that stood no higher than Frodo's head. Drawn irresistibly, he came near enough to touch it, though he did not dare to do so.

The stone was beautiful, and yet somehow dark and frightening. Silently, Frodo walked all the way around the plinth, studying the perfection of the stone's shape and smoothness, wondering what he might see were he given permission to look inside. With the weight of the books in his arms growing heavier, he reluctantly staggered back to where Bilbo sat.

"You've seen the stone?" he said, more in statement than question, as he heaped the books treacherously near Bilbo's mug of tea.

Bilbo blinked up at him, apparently engrossed. "The stone. The palantír? Why, yes, while you were off with Gandalf. Did you attempt to look in it?"

"Of course not!"

"Why 'of course not'? I did. No harm in trying, you know."

"And did you see anything?"

"No. But Elrond told me I wouldn't. It's the stone of Elostirion, you know. Elrond brought it on the White Ship for his lady."

"For her to see far away?" Frodo asked.

"That I don't know. And what she might see if she does, I also do not know."

Frodo clambered into the great chair on the opposite side of the table. Nearly oversetting Bilbo's mug, he lifted the first of the books off the stack and placed it in his lap. "I saw the Orthanc stone," Frodo said. "No, I did not see _in_ it," he added before Bilbo could voice the question clearly poised on his lips. "It sits on a velvet pillow at the top of a crystal pedestal in Aragorn's sitting room. The other is in a locked chest beneath a window."

"The other?"

"You remember," Frodo said quietly. "The one Denethor took into the flames with him. Aragorn said it will be long before anyone looks into it again. And he dreaded what any who did might see." He opened the book and turned the leaves to the first page of writing. He recognized the hand as Elrond's and relaxed. Elrond wrote in a clear style and a gracious use of quill. The silence penetrated, and he raised his head. Bilbo was studying him with an odd expression.

"What is it, Bilbo?"

"I wish I could have seen—oh, Aragorn's palantír, yes—but also the Mines of Moria, the gardens of Lórien, Ithilien, Minas Tirith—"

"Mordor?"

Bilbo nodded consideringly. "Even Mordor, desolate though it sounds. Even Mordor."

"I wish you could have seen them, too. But not as I did."

"Had I been younger—"

"I have no doubt you would have succeeded where I could not."

Bilbo stared at him. "What a resoundingly foolish thing to say. We both wore the Ring, Frodo. It was still weak when it was mine, but I remember—I remember its power." Frodo felt his cheeks grow warm. Bilbo continued more calmly, "No, I was going to say that had I been younger I would have carried it to Mordor and spared you the journey." His gaze turned inward and he sighed. "But who would have accompanied me? Who would have been my Samwise, hm?" Something like regret crossed his features and he reached for his mug. "No, Frodo, my dear fellow," he said with mild resignation, "the best hobbit for the job sits here beside me. I was too old, and I never had your strength."

"Now who's speaking foolishly?" Frodo chided lightly.

"Certainly not I. For your strength was far greater than any other's." Bilbo reopened his book with a flourish. "And don't ever forget it."

* * *

_Far greater than any other's._ Frodo reflected upon Bilbo's words off and on during the following days. He did not often revisit those final moments when he had stood in the Sammath Naur, the last instants when the Ring had been on his finger. It was painful to remember them, certainly, but it was also purposeless—even though it was true that he had taken himself to the edge of the precipice, that he had arrived there with every intention of fulfilling his task, that he had struggled with all his might, to complete it. But at the last moment, the Ring had taken him, had beguiled him with images of power that would have made a rational hobbit laugh out loud. And so he had failed.To his everlasting regret and chagrin, he had failed. To have come so far, to have endured so much.

Would it have been asking so very much to have put the Ring into the fire himself?

Despite his newfound contentment here in the land of the Valar, the darkness of his thoughts took him into the wood one afternoon, and there he walked for hours under low-hanging branches, needles and leaves yielding beneath his careful tread. He sat at length resting against the broad bole of an ancient tree, joylessly eating the bread and salted meat he had stowed in his rucksack.

The repairing of his physical wounds had been instructive: no longer could he confuse their distraction with the deeply embedded disappointment that remained. Every request for a telling of his part in the Ring Tale added gall to the raw spot. How simpleminded he had had been to think that writing everything down would put a stop to such requests. And even if he succeeded in writing it anew for Elvish eyes, there would always be someone wanting to hear it from his own lips. The wound that the Valar could not heal would chafe forever.

"I am being melodramatic," he muttered to himself, and angrily munched the last bite of bread. So he had failed. It stung to admit that; but in his heart, he also acknowledged that he could have done nothing else. He was no hero; indeed, he was among the smallest of creatures both in stature and courage. For all that, Sauron _had_ been overthrown—and Frodo _had_ been a part of his undoing: neither the greatest part, nor the smallest.

 _"We are in Valinor, Frodo!"_ Bilbo had exclaimed. The memory of it smoothed the lines from Frodo's face. "We are in Valinor," he repeated aloud. He raised his head and stared up through the canopy of leaves at patches of blue high overhead. There was solace to be had here. Something touched his foot. A narrow green snake was gliding round his toes. It stopped, its tongue flickering as it sensed the air. Changing direction, it started beneath his legs. Unaware that a tiny smile had come to his lips, Frodo watched its approach without concern. The creature lifted its head, little black eyes staring unblinkingly upward. "No," Frodo said softly. "Not in Elvish nor the Common Tongue. Read the book if you must know what happened. I'll bring it to you when it's written."

Startled either by the sound of his voice or the puffs of breath reaching its angular head, the snake veered away. It zigzagged under the arch of Frodo's bent knee and disappeared into the leaves a few feet away. Unaccountably cheered, Frodo pulled a book from his pack. As he arranged his spine against the gnarled bark of the tree, he found his place and began once more to silently translate Sindarin to Hobbitish.

The sun had traversed the sky and was spreading long shadows eastward when he strolled up to the great house. He hung his cloak on a peg just inside the opening to their apartments and propped his walking stick against the wall. In the kitchen he discovered a pan of warm rolls. Biting its crusty warmth with pleasure, he went into the sitting room. Bilbo, who was sprawled in his chair, heard his step and stated, "Young rascal! You have been gone all day. And look at you! You have leaves in your hair and your clothes are covered with grime."

"I have spent the day under the trees," Frodo said unrepentantly. "Would you like a roll?"

"Why, yes, I've been smelling them for ages." Bilbo took the offering and held it close to his nose before taking a bite. "Ah—here is the truant, Ellhach."

The Elf stood in the doorway and nodded. "I have prepared a bath, Frodo, if you wish to wash away your travels before the evening meal."

"I wish it very much," Frodo said. "Thank you, Ellhach."

A short while later, he lay drowsily soaking, arms hooked on the porcelain rim to keep himself from submerging beneath steaming water. Long and deep—but not too deep—and slanted for just such idling, the bathing vessel in which he lay was unlike anything to be had in the Shire. Similar, but not so luxurious, had been the washing basins of Minas Tirith. Perhaps, Frodo mused, the men of Númenor had learned their making from the Elves of the Second Age.

"Master Hobbit."

Frodo was startled out of his ruminations. There at the foot of his bath stood the Lady Celebrían. "Lady!" he gasped, pulling himself upright. Water sloshed over the sides and splattered loudly onto the stone floor.

"I would ask you a question," she said.

"I am in the bath, Lady," he protested.

She regarded him unconcernedly. "You are a hobbit. What matter if I see you unclothed?"

His mouth dry, Frodo stuttered, "Well—well, for one thing, your question will go unanswered, for I must drown myself if you do not leave at once."

Unmoved by his discomfort, she walked slowly round, her eyes raking his bare skin.

"Lady, please!" Frodo clapped his arms across himself. Nudity among males was not uncommon and rarely remarked upon; but never since his earliest years had Frodo sat naked before a female of his own kind, much less an Elvish noble.

Her eyes lingered upon his side, where a long thin streak marred the flesh. She stretched out a hand as if she would trace it. Frodo hissed and shrank away.

"Did they violate you?" she asked, withdrawing her hand.

"No." Frodo bowed his head, dipping his chin into the water. Surely she must understand how little she was welcome here? "They seemed more intent on skinning me alive and eating me raw. Now, if you will excuse me—"

"You were terrified." Her voice was a whisper.

"Yes." He sank lower, breathing out through his nostrils.

"You must hate them."

Stupefied by her persistence, he gave a little shake of his head. "I—no."

She made another circuit round the porcelain tub. "Why should you not?" she asked, her tone filled with reproach.

Frodo flinched. "It is not…my nature."

She made a grating sound. "'Not your nature' to detest something vile?"

"They are all dead, Lady. What would be gained?"

"They were not dead when they threatened you. When they hurt you."

Frodo retreated until only his eyes and streaming curls were above the surface of the water; his gaze was baleful.

"Do they not live in your dreams?" She stopped beside the chair where he had piled his things and reached down.

"My Lady Celebrían!" Elrond swept into the room, a fixedly serene expression on his face. "What a strange place to find you." Behind him, looking strained, Ellhach followed.

Celebrían straightened up, and in her hand was Frodo's star gem. Ignoring Elrond, she turned and held it in front of Frodo. "How did you come by this?"

Frodo remained stubbornly mute. "Arwen gave it to him," Elrond explained. "For his need." He put an arm round her shoulders. "Come, my beloved. Frodo will take chill."

She held the chain and jewel a moment longer before setting it with surprising reverence back down on the heap of clothing. Then, shooting one last, unreadable look Frodo's way, she allowed herself to be steered out of the room, walking straight and tall and as unconcernedly as if visiting hobbits in their baths were a daily occurrence.

Frodo blew out a plume of spray, glaring after her.

"She would not be stopped, Frodo," Ellhach said quietly.

"No, she wouldn't," Frodo agreed, and attempted a wry smile. "Thank you for fetching one who could sway her."

Ellhach nodded. "I will be outside when you need me."

Turning his frown inward, Frodo shakily stretched out a hand toward the table that stood at the other side of the bath. His wet fingers took a scented cake of soap from its shell holder. Almost at once it began to escape him, and he fumbled to recapture it. With a great splash it struck the water and plummeted straight down. With an unintelligible exclamation, Frodo wiped his eyes. And then, groaning, he let himself sink completely beneath the water.

* * *

"Oh, dear," Bilbo said. A laugh escaped his pursed lips. "Oh, dear!"

Infected by Bilbo's reaction, Frodo was hard pressed to hold back a grin. "It was awful, Bilbo. What ought I to have done?"

Bilbo hooted. "Oh, my dear fellow! I have no advice. None at all. Oh, my."

Slouching back in his chair, with his mug cupped in his hands, Frodo sighed. "Merry would have known what to say, and Pippin would have known what to do—no matter how outrageous. And dear, shy Sam—"

"Yes? What would dear, shy Sam have done?"

Frodo smiled. "Sam would have leapt out of the water, thrown his things about him, and run quite away."

Bilbo chuckled.

"Though perhaps I am thinking of Sam when he was younger. After we returned to the Shire, he was rather different, was Sam. Now that I think on it, he might have sat very calmly with the towel draped round him and answered her impertinence until she went away."

"Perhaps, perhaps. Now finish your supper," Bilbo said kindly. "It was probably hers, you know."

Frodo gave him a blank look.

"That pretty thing you wear round your neck. Celebrían probably gave it to Arwen, don't you think?"

Touching the gem through his shirt, Frodo considered. "I didn't think anything at all at the time. But now that you mention it, she did seem oddly affected at sight of it. You are undoubtedly right, Bilbo."

"It may have come as a shock to her. A reminder of the daughter she has not seen for five hundred years."

"Five hundred years," Frodo said wonderingly.

"And will never see again," Bilbo added softly.

As Frodo lay in bed that night, Celebrían's face came back to him: her eyes sparking, her face pallid save for twin spots of color high on her cheekbones. For some reason, he remembered his mother. Had there been a disagreement? No, his father had said something scandalous—even for him. And she had lit up like a stroke of lightning in a thunderous sky. Father had caught her about the waist and swung her in a circle, laughing in that big, jovial way of his. And soon she had been laughing too, for Frodo's mother had never been one to hoard anger.

Frodo sat up and removed the chain from his neck, letting it slide through his fingers until the jewel lay in his palm. It caught the light from the window, starlight and lantern light, and reflected their mingled brilliance. He draped the chain over the post at the head of the bed and stretched onto his side, gazing up at it.

In the morning, Frodo asked Ellhach for a large book filled with blank leaves, and a small one in which he might keep his diary. Ellhach assured him that the request was manageable. He also told Frodo that Bilbo meant to spend the day with Elrond; and so, after second breakfast, Frodo collected a few bits for lunch and a book and set out to the wood alone.

The summer sun was already high overhead when he stepped into the cool shade of the trees. He wandered farther along the ridgeline that he had seen the day before, angling off toward the north behind their apartments. The land rose as he went and the trees clumped closer together. He stopped often and drank from his waterskin while memorizing the way behind. Then he hiked on, learning the sights and scents and sounds of his new home, which he determined with some bemusement were not very different from the old one.

At mid-day, he broke his march beneath a broad, sheltering bramble and ate his lunch. Afterward, he read, half-listening to the breeze soughing through the leaves mingled with the carefree rustling of birds amidst the branches. His comprehension of written Sindarin was improving apace. Of course, much of what he had read so far had been composed for young readers—perhaps even _by_ young readers—but it pleased him that later consultation with Bilbo or Ellhach regarding troublesome words was growing less frequent. He was puzzling over a phrase that he suspected of regionalism when a faint but distinct noise caught his attention. Turning his head this way and that, he tried to determine whether there was a pattern to it or if it was merely the song of the wind in the upper reaches. Gently he closed the book and restored his things to his pack. Then he began to follow the musical sound and the downward slope for they seemed to lead to the same point.

She was sitting in a small clearing. A loom, more magnificent than any Frodo had ever seen in the Shire or elsewhere, stood before her and her hands danced back and forth as she guided the shuttle between two ranks of thread into a silken fabric. She sang as she loomed, her golden hair flowing down her back, tendrils stirred by the breeze, her soft gown light about her. He watched from behind a tree, desiring not to interrupt her song. But somehow she knew already that he was there, for she smiled in his direction and beckoned him with her eyes without losing a note or dropping a thread. Frodo quit the shelter of the tree and walked across the clearing to the Lady Galadriel. She signaled to him to sit with her. Wordlessly, enchanted by her sweet voice, he lowered himself to the earth, ignoring a bench and chairs a few feet away. For some time he watched the sheet of fabric grow, hypnotized by her tireless, graceful motions.

Her song ended at last and she laid her hands in her lap. "Frodo Baggins. I am pleased to see you looking so well."

"Lady."

"How do you find your new home?"

"It is very fair."

"That is courtesy learned at your mother's knee speaking."

Having thought so recently of his long-dead mother, Frodo was a little taken aback. "Some days," he said honestly, "I am not sure if I am dreaming."

"Today is not one of them, I trust?"

"I'm not sure. You are here alone: Can that be right?"

She smiled strangely at him. "You know of my life, of the choices I have made?"

"Bilbo has told me something of it."

"Then you know that I once refused the Great Manwë's command to return to Aman and was banned from ever returning."

"But you are here."

Her smile widened. "Because of you, little hobbit. I refused the Ring when you offered it to me, and I was forgiven. By Manwë." She turned her gaze aside, and her face became grave. "But others of my kind are not so forgiving. They may never welcome me here. And while they live—which will be a very long time—those who respect them will not welcome me either."

"How can that be?" Frodo's astonishment sounded harsh in the otherwise silent glen. "They have welcomed _me_."

"Yes," she said softly. "A fit punishment, would you not say?"

He swallowed, struck wordless. But there was no cruelty in her face, and he realized that she had plucked the thought, guarded deep within him, from his own mind. "Some days, yes." He shrugged. "On others, I am grateful."

"You and your kin are the rarest of guests, Frodo. Though it may seem a punishment because you have given up so much to come here, it is not meant to be such. The Valar have graced you with that which you would not have had, had you remained in Middle-earth: time and well-being. And in time, as you continue to grow well, you will know that you deserve their kindness."

"Forgive me, Lady, but I do not believe that," Frodo said bluntly.

She laughed. "When you are ready, you may look in my mirror. And then you will believe it."

The words escaped before he could arrest them: "What would I see? What could convince me?"

"The truth."

"But—"

Galadriel merely smiled at him and took up her shuttle and began again to sing. For a while longer, Frodo remained at her feet, letting her voice flow over him like a golden healing light. And then he stood, pack in hand, bowed, and went back into the forest. His steps took him around the edge of the clearing and past a beautiful house nestled amidst the trees. He continued downward, meaning to circle the Lady's land before striking out southward in search of familiar landmarks. He had not gone far before he came upon the same ridgeline that stretched behind Elrond's house. Fixing his position before going on, he considered what the Lady had told him. And then he walked down out of the wood and eventually onto the lawn outside his own apartments.

"There you are," Gandalf said, as Frodo strolled footsore but pleased into the kitchen.

"Hello, Gandalf!" Frodo laid down his rucksack and walked into the wizard's outspread arms.

"And hello to you." Gandalf hugged the hobbit in turn. "Back in time for dinner, I see."

"Is it as late as that?"

"It is. Bilbo was beginning to worry about you."

"I was exploring. And reading. And I met the Lady Galadriel."

"Did you."

Frodo's eyes grew dark as he considered his next words. "She is being shunned."

Gandalf's expression did not change. "Her period of atonement will end." Frodo opened his mouth to object, but his friend continued, "The others will soften in time. Though I doubt the Lady will look for, or desire, their forgiveness any time soon."

Exhaling in frustration, Frodo muttered, "'A fit punishment.'"

"Why, Frodo," Gandalf said on a note of surprise. "You grow wise beyond your years."

"It's the company I keep," Frodo said, and sighed again.

* * *

One early morning a few days later, Frodo sat at the little table in the flower garden outside the study, taking his breakfast and tea. The day, though hardly begun, was already warm and threatened to become stifling before the afternoon rains came in. Frodo pushed heavy, damp hair off his cheek and scratched a few more letters and numbers on a scrap of paper. The blank books had been waiting on the lace coverlet which draped his chest of drawers when he had come back from a wander the day before. They sat now on the garden table, leaving little room for his plate and tea things.

"Good morning, Frodo!"

Frodo was startled out of his ruminations by Bilbo, who was yawning and patting his open mouth as he came out of the building. "Good morning, Bilbo. You're up early!"

"Smelled bacon and toast," Bilbo replied, and looked pointedly at Frodo's meal.

"You can start on what's left of mine, if you like." Frodo removed the books to the stone patio and pushed his plate to the other side of the table.

"No, no. Well, perhaps…." Bilbo lowered himself into the chair and sleepily began to eat the remains of Frodo's bacon. "I'm not the only one to rise early."

"I forgot to pull the curtains in the study last night. My room was full of light at dawn. The sky is clearer here, have you noticed?"

"Unlike the dreary mist of morning in the Shire, do you mean? Yes, I have." He chewed with lazy delight, regarding Frodo through half-closed eyes. "What's that you're working on?"

"I'm trying to determine how long we've been here."

Bilbo added butter to a triangle of toast. "As near as I can reckon, it's been more than a month since we left the Havens."

"More than a—are you sure, Bilbo?"

"Hm. Is there any tea left?" Frodo nudged an empty mug toward him and lifted the pot with his free hand. "Thank you, Frodo, that's lovely. I can't vouch for the number of days we were on the White Ship—or, indeed, whether that time could be measured in days." He tapped a finger against his chin. "But altogether, I do believe it's nearly four weeks, perhaps even longer."

"Four weeks." Frodo drained his own cup. Absently setting it down, he studied the scrap of paper. "That would make it the end of October?"

"If we were keeping Shire Reckoning," Bilbo agreed mildly. "But it is—"

"Good morning, my dear friends." The voice came from the edge of the lawn near the courtyard.

"Ah, Gandalf, there you are." Bilbo waved a hand in greeting.

"And you are up early," Gandalf remarked. "Did you not sleep, my old friend?"

"I slept very well, thank you. Come, take a chair. Are you hungry?"

"I would not say no to tea, but that's all."

"Such a delicate appetite these days." Bilbo eyed him critically. "That tumble of yours in the mines changed more than the color of your hair, didn't it?"

Gandalf let out a bark of laughter. "I suppose it did. But in ways you cannot understand, dear Bilbo."

Frodo smiled at the wizard as he fetched a large chair from the shadow of the mountain and brought it into the sunshine.

"What's that you have there?" Gandalf asked, indicating the books lying on the stones near Frodo's feet.

"A book for the Elvish version of my long and unhappy tale."

"Unhappy!" Bilbo interjected. "A happier tale was never— Wonderful, Ellhach, wonderful!" he exclaimed as the Elf appeared with a tray of fresh toast, eggs, bacon and cheese. "Look, he has even brought us peaches and apples from the orchard. Thank you, Ellhach." The Elf bowed and took away the teapot for refilling. "Surely you cannot mean that purging Middle-earth of Sauron's evil was unhappy, Frodo?"

For a moment Frodo did not answer, despite Bilbo's puckered irritation and Gandalf's quizzical but unreadable gaze. "It is a happy tale for those to come," he replied at last, "for they will have known the rule of a great king and many years of peace. Their memories won't be darkened by the loss of loved ones nor the destruction of their homes and lands."

"Sometimes," commented Gandalf quietly, "without bitterness, one cannot truly savor the nature of sweetness."

Frodo sketched a nod. "You're right, of course."

Bilbo frowned at him. "You agree, but you do not mean it. Why, Frodo?"

Sorry now for his honesty, Frodo shrugged. "Because I am silly, Bilbo. Forgive me."

His brow still furrowed, Bilbo gathered himself to speak, apparently bent on coercing a full reply, but Gandalf brought an end to the discussion. "You are forgiven, Frodo. What is the other book, then, the smaller one?"

"My journal. Though I do not know how to date it. Can it really be the last days of October, Gandalf?"

A slow smile curved across Gandalf's face. "It could be—if we were in the Shire. Thirty-two days have passed since our leave-taking, and that would make it late October or early November—in the Shire. But, understand, Frodo: time is measured differently here."

"I can see that. It is summer—or something like it."

"Yes. And summer is followed by spring."

"No autumn? No winter?"

"You, my dear fellow," Bilbo inserted, clucking his tongue, "have forgotten the old tales in their entirety."

"They were told to me as tales, Bilbo. I never expected—"

"To learn the difference between myth and truth?" Gandalf chuckled. "Since the world changed, there has been none to confirm or deny the myths, for the road has led only away, not back."

"So we must learn the truth afresh, is that what you're saying, you old rascal?" Bilbo demanded.

"That is precisely what I am saying, Bilbo."

Frodo gave up. "Then I shall just have to number my days. And today is Day Thirty-three."

* * *

In the time that followed, Frodo sensed his old life drifting away, like dandelion fluff caught in a sudden breeze. Theirs was an idyllic existence, more peaceful and joyous than any they had known. They reveled in morning sunshine and cooled off in afternoon showers. The nights were mild, and soft airs made for excellent sleeping.

While Bilbo often dozed both morning and evening, Frodo occupied himself in the early hours writing in the big book. After mid-morning tea, for which he would stir Bilbo from his dreams, Frodo regularly took to exploring. Silent as a wraith, he would pass through the wood, rarely making himself known to others if he spied them first, which was commonly the case. Occasionally, he took an inkhorn and a special quill to the meadow he had discovered southeast of Elrond's land and there settled in the concealing grasses and long-legged wildflowers to write in his journal. Amidst the hum of bees and skittering of lizards and ground squirrels—none of whom seemed to disturb each other—he would record the events of the day. Often brilliantly colored butterflies competed with the flowers, catching his eye and breaking his thoughts.

After lunch, he relied upon Ellhach to read through the morning's writings in the big book, then spent an hour redoing all in a fair hand. The afternoon was often spent in Elrond's library, usually in a quiet corner, where, undisturbed, he sat and lazily browsed through page after page of history, philosophy, and natural observations, all recorded in Elvish—a language that was rapidly becoming known to him in its fullness. Early evenings, with Bilbo rested and famished, were divided between quiet hours in their shared sitting room, drinking ale and eating flatbread, or taking dinner and wine with Elrond and his guests in his great hall.

During those hours in Elrond's company of Elves, Frodo was always prepared with some small anecdote of the Ring Quest, rehearsed while wandering the woods or sitting in the garden. The Elves delighted in hearing about Old Man Willow or Tom Bombadil or the barrow of the wight—that dreadful creature that had nearly claimed their lives; and what might have happened to the Ring had the wight succeeded but for Frodo's latent strength and Tom's rescue? Many were familiar with the lands he had traveled, had known Aragorn—though by the Third Age men were, for the most part, avoided. None at that table had crossed the Ephel Dúath or the Ered Lithui and seen for themselves the black lands of Mordor. If conversation seemed to drift toward that damaged place, either Elrond or Gandalf, if he were present, would bring up some other incident in Frodo's journey: Moria, or Emyn Muil, even Cirith Ungol as preferable topics.

But one evening, as the wine drained from each goblet, one young Elf persisted in wanting to know more about Orodruin and the Sammath Naur, and the events that had occurred there. Maintaining a pleasant façade, and speaking slowly and carefully—for this tale had not been rehearsed—Frodo described that last wretched slog. His hushed words brought to their senses the mountain's cruel stony carapace and the ash-laden air, the raspy rawness of their throats, the agony of drawing breath, the terrible bone-deep ache of their limbs, the blinding grit, and the plodding urgency to complete what they had undertaken, before exhaustion and privation could end their mission. The Elves experienced the jagged ground beneath their feet and the foul fumes abrading their lungs while they struggled ever higher, weaker with each step, gasping for air, the weight of the Ring growing cripplingly heavier as it was carried nearer its place of creation. They shared the dreadful moment of near failure when Gollum set upon them and the ferocious demands on their dwindling strength required to repel him. They saw the Chamber of Fire through the haze of suffocating, stifling heat trapped within its rock walls. And they knew the inevitable power of the One, its indomitable will, and the weak spirit that it so easily overcame—for Frodo told the tale without varnish or self-sympathy.

A sharp voice interrupted him: "You _kept_ it? We were told that you cast it into the fire."

Frodo regarded him levelly. "At that moment I could do nothing else."

"You claimed it! But how then—?"

"Smeágol took it from me." Frodo raised his hand, the stump of his ring finger visible for all to see. "But in his great joy at regaining his precious, he misstepped and fell, with the One, into the chasm."

The Elf made no effort to disguise his astonishment and disillusionment. "But you are _here_ —even though—"

Bilbo interjected sharply, "Had that scoundrel not intervened, Frodo would have come to his senses and done what was needed."

"But he did not. In truth, he did not!"

Despite being startled by Bilbo's vigorous defense, Frodo agreed mildly, "In truth, I did not."

"He would have," Bilbo said stubbornly. "He's a Baggins!" Bilbo did not see Frodo's grateful smile for he was glowering angrily at the Elf.

"It was Smeágol who destroyed the Ring," Frodo said, "though he never meant to."

Ignoring Bilbo, the Elf said, "Perhaps it is he who deserves our honor this evening."

"He had little liking of Elves," Frodo murmured, but his words were lost amidst the loud bubbling noises rising in Bilbo's throat, and which finally took form: "How dare you speak such cal—!" he began hotly.

Elrond quelled him with an upraised hand. "Peace, my friend." Then, as Bilbo restrained his fury only by main force, though he continued to mutter angrily, Elrond directed himself to the young Elf: "Could you have carried the Ring to Mordor, month after month, wounded and starved, Cirlad? A Ring that Olórin himself would not touch?"

"Of course not, Lord Elrond. I try only to understand how it is that this hobbit—though he suffered and strove with the finest of intentions, but freely admits that he would have brought ruin to all of Middle-earth had it not been for that wretched creature—has been allowed _here_ , he and his kin, here in the blessed realm."

"Do you question the judgment of the Valar?"

As one, all heads turned toward the Lady Celebrían.

For a long moment, Cirlad stared at her with his mouth open. "No, my lady." He bowed his head.

"Would you then not agree that by his being here, in their judgment, Frodo Baggins is worthy of the highest regard?"

Slowly the Elf raised his head. To Frodo's immense discomfort, there were tears in Cirlad's eyes. He nodded, and unexpectedly, smiled. "You are quite right, my lady."

Elrond laid his hand upon hers and held it tightly. He swallowed and set his mouth, as though—improbably—his lips were trembling. But then he inclined his head and spoke in his usual manner: "Pray, continue, Frodo. To the very end."

Conscious of a significant change in mood, but wholly unaware of its meaning, Frodo told how Sam had carried him to the opening, and there they had stood and watched as Sauron's works and will had crumbled to dust. At their backs, the mountain, too, had begun to destroy itself. Yet upon Sam's insistence, they had sought a less perilous place and stumbled down the mountain's heaving side. Almost thrown off their feet by its convulsions and nearly swallowed by steaming rents formed in its hide, they had picked their way downward from the raging mouth, blinded by thick black smoke, scorched by passing fireballs, and driven onward by floods of molten rock. With the very last of their strength, they had reached a spur of land that was almost immediately cut off from the whole by rivers of fire, and, shrouded by ash and tormented by a rain of hot stones, they had lain at last to die. "But Gandalf—Mithrandir—came with Eagles to rescue us. It…seemed a dream."

"Even so, they very nearly died. Very nearly," Gandalf remarked. "The healing powers of the King were all that stood between them and their last breaths."

"Your servant Samwise Gamgee—he, too, a Ring-bearer: does he not deserve the honor of the Valar?" Cirlad asked.

Gandalf smiled at the Elf's persistence. "A ship waits upon his choice."

Frodo added firmly, "And _he_ is worthy of honor. Without reservation. Without question."

* * *

"'Without reservation. Without question.' What a fellow you are sometimes, Frodo!" Bilbo said, shaking his head.

They were in their sitting room, feet propped up on hassocks in front of the quietly burning fire. The evening had continued without further incident, a great deal of wine and good food going a long way toward gentling ruffled emotions. Elrond himself had walked with them across the courtyard, and strangely, he had thanked Frodo before making his good nights. When Frodo had asked Gandalf why he had been thanked, Gandalf had only closed his eyes, a reminiscent smile on his lips, and said, "I'm off to bed. Ask me again in the morning." Ellhach had greeted them with tea and fresh buttered bread, though Bilbo swore he could not swallow another gulp or bite of anything. Nevertheless he had joined Frodo in the sitting room. There he had collapsed into his favorite chair and uncomplainingly accepted a mug of tea and a plate of bread.

"It seemed appropriate," Frodo defended himself, warming his fingers round his mug. Sleepily, he gazed at the writhing flames; embers flared before being sucked into the flue. "What you said, Bilbo: do you really believe that?"

Bilbo turned weary eyes toward him.

"About what I would have done had Gol—Smeágol not interfered," Frodo clarified. "Whyever should you think that?"

"Ah." Bilbo clicked his tongue. "My dear Frodo." The old hobbit rested back in his chair. "Don't you know? You failed only because you didn't have time to succeed."

Frodo smiled tolerantly. "I see."

"Don't take that tone with me, young sir. I am not some doddering fool to be humored." He stared dauntingly at Frodo for a moment. The effect, which was considerable, was spoiled when he was seized by a huge yawn.

"I'm not humoring you, uncle," Frodo said affectionately. "But you will allow me to believe otherwise."

"Hmph. I did not tolerate brooding when you were a child. You do not think I shall support it now?"

"I am not brooding." Frodo rested his head against the chair back. "But you must understand: I was there and you were not."

"Frodo." There was such warmth in Bilbo's tone that Frodo was compelled to open his eyes and meet the other's gaze. "We have not spoken much of that moment. It was undoubtedly very painful for you, and you have been unswervingly honest. Painfully honest. I was not there, it's true, but I know you as few do. And I shall not be shaken in my belief in you."

Moved almost to tears, Frodo found his voice only slowly. "Dear Bilbo."

* * *

Sitting amidst the tall grass and wildflowers the next day, his hair stirred by an irrepressible breeze, Frodo committed the evening's events to his journal. The day was warm and the sun shone brightly in a cornflower blue sky. His pen was poised mid-air and had been for some while. Frodo was remembering the look on Elrond's face when Celebrían had defended him. Celebrían! And the tears in Cirlad's eyes when she had taken him to task. Almost certainly, Frodo knew, they had been tears not of embarrassment but of some other strong emotion, though what he could not say. Nor had he had a chance to speak with Gandalf, for the wizard had gone off before the dawn. So the day had progressed much as usual, and after lunch Frodo had come here to think and write in his journal.

The slow tread of horses' hooves broke into his thoughts. He slouched a little lower in the grass, though he knew himself already to be not easily seen. They came nearer and nearer, and before long there was no question that he had been spotted.

"Frodo."

He dropped the pretence of being deeply engrossed in his writing and raised his head.

The Lady Celebrían sat a few feet away, mounted on a grey mare. She held the reins of another horse, a tall bay. "Will you ride with me?"

His eyes betrayed his consternation.

"You are not afraid? Legend has it that you have a ridden a horse before."

"Legend." Frodo could not suppress a laugh. "It is true. But I was more than half out of my mind and in a great deal of pain at the time."

She gazed down at him without speaking.

"Yes, all right." He closed his journal, slipped the quill into its leather sheath, and sealed the inkhorn. He tucked everything into his rucksack, and, rising, slung the sack over one shoulder and began to snake his free arm through the other strap. Her horse shied a little at the sudden movement, and he stilled instantly. She waited patiently as he regained his courage, then led the horses away from the meadow to a group of large stones. He followed unhurriedly, distrustful of the great legs and sharp hooves. When the bay was standing beside the stones, she looked back at him. He clambered onto the largest of the boulders, which brought him halfway up the horse's side.

"His name is Rocaran. He is the gentlest of my lord's stable."

Frodo placed a hand against the coarse flank, and the animal's huge head swung round. Frodo swallowed, meeting a surprisingly patient gaze, then pulled himself up and onto its back. The stirrups had been cinched to accommodate the length of his legs, and the saddle he found reassuringly comfortable. Celebrían handed the reins to him.

"Tell me about hobbits," she said, and guided her horse away from the rocks and the meadow. Rocaran fell into step behind the other horse, and together they headed up the mountainside.

"What about them, Lady?"

"Do you not know your history?"

The horses found a road and turned onto it, their gait brisk but not uncomfortable. The road curved up through the hills and outcroppings. Frodo said, "Is this the road that leads to the haven?"

"Yes. Were we to take it that way. We go in another direction."

For some moments they traveled in silence. Frodo had to lean forward as the ascent sharpened, but the horse was surefooted and shifted its balance to keep him seated. He vaguely remembered Gildor saying that Asfaloth, his white steed, would not unseat any rider that Gildor had asked him to carry. He wondered if Celebrían had asked Rocaran to provide the same courtesy.

"The earliest tales begin in the Gladden Fields," Frodo said. "There the Stoors were first settled." As the horses' hooves clattered upon the glittering road, and large clouds rolled across the sun, bringing a welcome shade, Frodo recounted what he knew of the Stoors, the Fallohide, and the Harfoot. The Lady Celebrían listened without interruption, wisps of her long silver hair escaping the shining metal clasp that bound it back from her face. She brushed it absentmindedly away from her cheek. He told her of the Wicked Winter when wolves had invaded the Shire, the time orcs had ventured into their borders, and the year of the terrible plague when many, many hobbits had died.

She said nothing, even when he stopped speaking. For a while the quiet sounds of day and their passing moved in to fill the silence. At last she said, "You are a sturdy folk?"

Frodo thought about it. "In some ways, I suppose, yes."

"My Lord Elrond told me of the exploits of your cousin."

Inwardly, Frodo smiled: Bilbo would like that word, 'exploits.'

"He too fought spiders and orcs—and a dragon," she observed.

"Yes. Bilbo is very famous among our kind."

"Ours, too, it would seem. As are you."

An hour and more had passed and still they kept to the curve of the mountain. Occasionally they passed a narrower road that intersected with theirs, a drive that disappeared into the woods on either side to someone's home, but they saw no one. A hawk, screeing aloud, soared overhead. The clouds were thickening and growing darker. Frodo felt sure they would be caught out in a rain shower.

Suddenly, Celebrían's horse left the road and Rocaran obediently fell behind. They entered a stand of trees, the ground soft and littered with leaves and twigs. She brought her horse to a halt and gracefully dismounted. Frodo hesitated, but she came alongside and held out a hand to help him down. On his feet once more, he slipped off his pack and set it on the ground a short distance away. Then he patted the horse's withers, gazing about with interest, curious if she had brought him here for a purpose.

"Not here," she replied to his unspoken question. "This way." Lifting her robes, she trod almost as quietly as a hobbit beneath the trees, still moving away from the road. Frodo hurried behind, puffing a little as the slope inclined. The wood thinned and the ground hardened. They were on rock once more, the trees replaced by scrub and bracken. And then there was only rock.

"From here," Celebrían said, "you can see the ships come in."

The side of the mountain fell off sharply. They could see all the way down its skirted sides, for hundreds of feet. Here and there great pools glistened with collected run-off, brilliant mirrors for the skies. Farther down, there were meadows and fields, and, made tiny by distance, homes and small communities. But out from the base of the mountain far below, Frodo could see the whiteness of shores and water, like a great blue plain stretching out to the obscured horizon.

"Ships?" he breathed.

"They come out of the sky." She pointed. "There." Most of her hair had come lose from its clasp, and strands of it flailed like living things all about her head.

Turning his face in the direction she had indicated, Frodo said, "Did you see us?"

"Yes. I have watched for my Lord Elrond for many a day." She gazed down at Frodo. "I saw the Eagle that carried you and Olórin to Taniquetil. It was far in the distance, but I could see that it bore riders."

"Do they come often, the ships?"

"No. But perhaps that is no longer true." She closed her eyes. "It will rain soon. Let us go back."

With Rocaran's patient forbearing, Frodo was able to hoist himself into the saddle. In the upper reaches of the mountain, it was chill without the sun. Frodo had left his cloak in his room, so he shivered and huddled close to the horse for warmth.

Celebrían began to speak, and her words were almost equally chilling, though there was no anger, no sorrow, no emotion of any kind in her voice. "I used to cross the Misty Mountains from Rivendell to Lórien to visit my mother, a journey of some days. You have been there. It was on one such travel that my riding party was overtaken by orcs."

The wind began to rise.

"They killed everyone, save one who survived to carry news back to my Lord Elrond. And me. Among those they savaged were many dear friends, and a close cousin." Celebrían's quiet voice carried clearly on the wind. "I was wounded when I fought, wounded again to end my resistance. They took me to a place deep inside the mountain, where it was dark and dank and reeked with a dreadful smell."

"Lady—"

She might have been speaking to herself, and took as little notice of him as if she were. "In the dark their poison laid me low and I began to burn. They watched me with hunger in their eyes. They plucked at my clothing, they pulled my hair. One of them attempted to touch me as a husband would. Another stopped him—out of envy. They fought; others joined in. One died. They ate him."

"Lady, why do you speak of it? There is no shame in what was done against your will."

She looked back at him, her eyes expressionless. "Do not speak to me of shame. It is why we are both here, is it not?"

Frodo shrugged helplessly. " _You_ have done nothing to regret."

They followed the road into the trees, where the wind was cut by branches and leaves, though it could still be heard rushing loudly overhead. "Nor have you." At least that was what he thought she said. But she was no longer looking at him, her eyes turned back to the road. Perhaps she had said nothing at all and he had imagined it.

Lightning struck one of the higher promontories. Seconds later, thunder cracked, a sharp report like a massive branch being snapped apart by massive fists. It left a slow grumbling roar in its wake, a fearsome sound like that of a wounded troll. To distract himself from the sense of danger gathering overhead and the even more awful images that Celebrían had placed in his mind, Frodo thought of the trolls he had seen: armor-clad mountain trolls issuing forth from Minas Morgul, the cave troll whose howls of agony and anger he had heard in Moria, the glimpse of another mountain troll working the Black Gate. A second bolt lit the sky, its clap of thunder following a breath later. Celebrían did not urge her horse to greater haste, but kept to her steady pace, head held high, hands light on the reins. Another brilliant flash and another: one peal of thunder elided with the next. Trolls in anger; trolls in rage. Great drops of rain began to plummet from the heavy clouds, raising tiny puffs of dust where they struck the ground. Before long Frodo even more deeply regretted the absence of his cloak. The rain took on the violence of the lightning and thunder, and, upon the rising wind, came down cold and hard. Yet still they plodded on. Frodo, drenched, drooped over Rocaran's neck, curls clinging to his chilled skin.

With some surprise, he heard a familiar voice exclaim, "There you are! Come, Frodo, let me help you down." Somehow they had reached the outer edge of the lawn and Ellhach was there, undeterred by the lashing wind and sheeting rain. He lifted Frodo off the horse before the hobbit had a chance to reply. "My lady, do you wish my assistance?"

"No, Ellhach. Look to your charge." And without another word, Celebrían rode down the hillside to the stables, the riderless bay sedately clopping along behind.

Frodo watched her go, grateful for Ellhach at his back, protecting him from the brunt of the storm. Then, with a quick nod of thanks, he dashed for the arch that gave access to the study. The Elf arrived on his heels, slipping off his cloak and folding it to keep it from dripping onto the floor. "I have kept the water hot for you, if you wish to bathe."

"Oh, thank you, Ellhach!" Teeth chattering, Frodo shot a trembling smile in his direction, and started at once toward the hall. The bathroom was at the very end, just past his room, the door as always closed. And as usual, the fire was lit and the room was filled with warmth. Exhaling with relief, Frodo stripped off his things and climbed into the huge basin. He groaned as he sank into the water. For a long moment, he lay there, eyes closed, categorizing every part of his body as it eagerly gathered warmth to itself. At last, thoroughly at peace, he floated, curling and uncurling his toes, aware but unconcerned that if he were not careful he could easily fall asleep.

As the back of their apartments lay in the lee of the mountain, in fact cut some ways into its hard crust, virtually nothing of sound or light from outside intruded within. Vaguely, Frodo thought he discerned the fading rumble of thunder, but with the door closed and the room windowless, he could not know whether the storm even continued. Slowly, the memory of Celebrían's coldness and the emptiness of her voice intruded. With eyes pinched shut, he submerged himself entirely, then rose, water streaming down his shoulders, and reached for the cake of soap. After a quick wash, he stood and pulled a bath sheet—big enough to cover him from head to foot with enough left over to puddle about his toes—from the stack on the bench. Rubbing the wet from his hair, he lowered himself onto the cushioned bench and sat with his back to the fire. His clothes were a soaked heap on the floor. Not far away lay his backpack, newly stained. And there beside his hip, resting on the patterned fabric covering the bench, glinted the last thing he had removed: Arwen's gemstone on its silver chain. He regarded it thoughtfully before taking it into his hand. Without living warmth it was only a thing, beautiful but cold. Yet something in it, some essential aspect of it imparted comfort when it hung close to his skin. He closed it in his fist.

That evening, while Bilbo sleepily digested his dinner, Frodo continued his Elvish translation of the Ring story. It was greatly pared down from the one he had bequeathed to Sam's keeping: scarcely more than an outline. But his nascent comprehension of Elvish would never carry through a full-blown retelling. Not for many years. He dipped his quill in and out of the inkcup, carefully formed letter after letter on the page of parchment, sipped his tea, and in between spent several moments watching Bilbo doze.

Later, after Ellhach had left a fresh pot along with still warm biscuits, Bilbo roused from his napping and they talked about Frodo's mid-day ride. "What a sight that would be," Bilbo mused. "Ships sailing out of the sky."

"Do you remember when we reached Valinor, Bilbo? It was dark," Frodo said, "and I was ill. I can't recall much."

"You will have forgotten—if ever you knew it—that I was asleep in our cabin when you stole up on deck. What a hue and cry you raised, my dear!"

Frodo sighed. "Poor Gandalf." He refilled his mug. "I have been nothing but trouble for him."

"He would never say so. I rather doubt that he thinks such a thing."

"He ought to."

"Ought he?" Bilbo patted his tummy and leaned comfortably back in his chair. "He'll be rid of us soon enough." At Frodo's querying look, he elaborated, "You know. To the Elves we are like fireflies in late summer. Soon gone."

"Comforting thought," Frodo said drolly.

Bilbo nodded and closed his eyes, a soft smile folding into familiar creases. "Indeed."

Bilbo was half asleep in the sun when Frodo rose from their small table in the garden the next morning. He paused at the elder hobbit's side and dropped a gentle kiss on the springy curls at his crown. Then he took up his rucksack and stretched his legs across the lawn. He disappeared into the wood and soundlessly made his way to the ridgeline, a path that had already become familiar to him. It was a fair, warm day, heavy with moisture. As he walked under the canopy of huge mallorns intermixed with tall stately conifers, the weight of the air assured him that rain clouds would darken the afternoon. A short while later, from nearby, he heard voices. Having no desire to be seen, he purposely put the trunk of a great tree between himself and the passers-by. They went quietly, two Elves he had noticed in Elrond's hall, their conversation animated but hushed. When they had gone, Frodo continued his short journey, mounting the ridge and descending its other side. The lilt of singing came to him long before he reached the clearing and, as before, guided him to her.

Her long hair was a cloud of gold gathered at her neck and her feet were bare. Her loom stood before her and quick slender fingers supplely worked the shuttle, pale feet working the treadle. He was certain that she was aware of him, even though he emerged from the wood out of her line of sight and walked in perfect hobbit silence. Even when he could not be ignored, sight of him did not interrupt her, and she sang and loomed as though still alone, though she greeted him with a faint nod and the tiniest of smiles. Touched by her welcome, he went to the space beyond her loom and sat on the shade-cooled grass. The pure tones and the whisper of her movements began to soothe him, and he listened with eyes closed, unknowing until that moment how deeply unsettled he was feeling.

At last she ended her song and rested her hands, gathering them in her lap. "You have brought me something, Frodo?"

He stirred, refreshed as though he had wakened from a pleasing dream, and drew a small casket from his pack. It was light in his hand, simple but expertly crafted. Ellhach had brought it to him last night in answer to his request, and it had proven to be the exact size and shape he wanted. Now, at the final moment, he hesitated. And then he stood and carried it to Galadriel. "For her," he said. "Celebrían."

Galadriel accepted the tiny box into her hands. "Do you not wish to give it to her yourself?"

Frodo shook his head. "I do not think she would have it from me." He met the lady's eyes. "Perhaps it will help."

"Perhaps." She studied him a moment. "Are you quite certain you no longer need it?"

Frodo started to answer, checked himself, then nodded. "I shall miss it because it reminds me of Arwen and Aragorn; but the darkness is gone and the pain with it. It would be wrong for me to keep it, if she might be helped."

"She can be contrary. Indeed, she might be angry."

"Do you think so?"

Galadriel smiled at his alarm. "My daughter, in her remorse and bitterness, is like quicksilver even to me, Frodo. I would only have you to understand that her gratitude is not assured."

"I do not want gratitude. If it brings her comfort as it did me, that will be reward enough."

"Then I shall do as you desire." She tucked the casket into a fold of her robes. "Now sit, if you will, and tell me how your writing goes."

There was no ticklish dew to bead on the hair of hobbit feet when Frodo returned home. He strolled out of the trees humming a tune round a stalk of grass held loosely between his teeth. The sun was nearly overhead and she, as well as his complaining insides, spoke of a second breakfast missed—despite the apple and wedge of cheese that had sustained him on the way back. He came in through the study door, as he often did, and after depositing his backpack in his room he walked through to the kitchen in search of leftovers.

Far more than leftovers covered nearly every inch of the table: a large steaming meat pie, plates of boiled vegetables, a tray of fruit including strawberries and peaches and gooseberries, and sweet pastries redolent of honey and nuts. Frodo restricted himself to a very fresh roll, so hot it burned his fingertips and the surface of his tongue, and went in search of Bilbo. He found him rather sooner than expected: they nearly collided in the doorway.

"You are exasperating, Frodo!" Bilbo said in lieu of greeting. "I've been looking for you all morning."

"Forgive me, Bilbo," Frodo mumbled round a mouthful. "I didn't know I was wanted."

" _Needed_ ," Bilbo said petulantly. "Gandalf promised to be here for dinner, and I've heard nothing from him. Everything will be spoilt if he doesn't come soon. Be a good lad, won't you, and look in across the courtyard. Perhaps he's been sidetracked by Elrond. I've lost Ellhach, too. Ask after him as well, won't you?"

"Certainly, Bilbo." Swallowing quickly, Frodo happily allowed himself to be chivvied out the door. It was cheering to see Bilbo so lively after a couple of sleepy days. He crossed the wide grounds and hurried into Elrond's greeting hall. Finding no one there, he started for the library, thinking of the many times he had seen Elrond and Gandalf with their heads bent over an aged manuscript. Instead he encountered the Lady Celebrían, who appeared in the hall just outside the entry to the library. She carried a basket, empty now, but one that would be overflowing with freshly cut flowers before too long.

"Lady Celebrían," he said, artlessly, "have you seen Ellhach or Gandalf?"

She paused mid-step and looked down at him in a way that filled him with sudden doubt. He had forgotten himself entirely to have spoken so directly. A strange puzzlement wrinkled her brow, and she said, "You are truly ignorant of your presumption, aren't you?"

"Forgive me, lady. I shouldn't have imposed on you."

"On me? It is not me of whom I speak."

Frodo waited, his discomfort growing stronger.

"How else to explain your casual use of an Elvish prince and, far worse, one of the People of the Valar?"

"'People of the…?'"

"The one you call 'Gandalf.' You speak of him as if he were your equal."

"Never my equal. He is a great wizard—"

"Wizard," she said scornfully. "A wizard, even a great one, is no more than a trickster, a manipulator of simple minds. Olórin is a _maia_ , a special servant of Manwë, not a trickster nor a servant of hobbits."

"Manwë." Frodo felt as though the air had been stolen from his lungs, and his heart beat in a curious, uneven manner. "He never said, though I have known him since I was a child."

"You are no longer a child. And Olórin's time in Middle-earth is ended. You should not importune him as you are accustomed to doing."

"I should do nothing if he did not welcome it," Frodo defended himself weakly.

She said, with unbearable kindness, "He pities you. Indeed, he wears that aged form because of you. He has no need of it. He is of the air and the light, the darkness and the water." A sudden anger contorted her features and she glared at him. Then she turned and swept away, leaving him looking stupidly after her.

For a moment he stood as if frozen, his thoughts in such turmoil that he could not fix on any one. He felt all unbalanced, as though the very earth had shifted beneath him.

"You are quite flushed, Frodo," a familiar and well-loved voice observed. "Are you all right?" Gandalf, tall and calm, stood framed in the doorway to the library. He regarded Frodo with some concern. As their eyes met, he started forward at once.

"I didn't know," Frodo blurted out.

"Didn't know what?" Gandalf asked, closing the distance between them in four great strides.

"That you are one of the People of the Valar. I would never importune you, Gandalf. You must know that?"

"Importune me?" A wide grin split the snow-white beard. "My dear Frodo," he said gravely, "have you ever known me to allow myself to be 'importuned'?"

"She said—"

"She?"

"The Lady Celebrían. She told me who—what—you are."

"Did she?"

"You are a maia. And you—"

"Yes?" He stood less than a foot away now, and Frodo confusedly contemplated him anew, looking for some aspect that should declare him for what he really was. But search as he might, he saw only the wizard he had known his entire life, changed from the Grey to the White, true, but essentially the same being, as familiar to him as Bilbo.

"She said that you look as you do because of me."

Gandalf raised his brows. "And if that is true?"

"It is out of pity," Frodo finished wretchedly.

"No." Gandalf lowered himself to his heels and stared directly into Frodo's eyes. "It is out of the greatest respect—and affection, I might add." He laid a hand on Frodo's shoulder. "Frodo, are things changed between us?"

"In a way. You should not be burdened with us, here in your home, where you might be yourself as you like."

"Ah, Frodo. I am home, and you are in no way a burden—save for your endless interrogations, which I suspect I should miss come the day that they end. I do not mind wearing this shape. In fact, it is quite ordinary after all this time. But one of the greatest pleasures in my being home is that you and Bilbo are here to share it."

"She said—"

"I am sure she said a great many things—to you. Amazing how little she speaks to anyone else. But that is of no matter. I was invited to dinner and I am quite famished. Bilbo must be hopping; he does not like to be kept waiting."

"Bilbo!" Frodo sighed; Bilbo would be hopping indeed. "Yes. I was hungry, too."

"And will be again. Come along, then. I shall be happy to deflect his wrath one more time."

As Gandalf had foreseen, Frodo's appetite returned and Bilbo's wrath was deflected, though it required only a little assistance from Gandalf. Frodo was reminded of Celebrían's words when Ellhach, who had returned in his absence, oversaw the meal, ensuring that nobody's plate was empty nor his glass unfilled. Frodo watched him from beneath his lashes, noting the innate dignity and sureness of his movements, the serene demeanor, and the solicitousness with which he cared for them. While Frodo had never failed to thank the Elf for his care, he wondered now at his presence. Celebrían had been correct about Gandalf: surely she spoke truthfully about Ellhach.

Gandalf stayed for hours, long after the remains of their meal had been stored and the kitchen returned to its usual tidy appearance. Frodo occasionally felt his eyes upon him, his gaze assessing and a little solicitous. In turn Frodo would offer a reassuring nod—but behind his smile he was considering things he had not countenanced before.

In holding Gandalf's affection and trust, had Frodo assumed altogether too much? _You are truly ignorant of your presumption, aren't you?_ Ought he to have wondered about Gandalf's favor? For while it was true that he loved the Shire and all of its inhabitants, Gandalf had singled out Bilbo and in his turn Frodo for his special attention and kindness. The question had come up in Minas Tirith, when the hobbits, Legolas, and Gimli had shared Gandalf's house after the fall of Sauron. It was Gimli who had asked why Gandalf had chosen Bilbo all those years before to embark on a very unhobbit-like adventure. Gandalf had said then—Frodo prodded his inconvenient memory—that as Olórin, in the West "that is forgotten," he had had knowledge not shared by the wizard Gandalf. Frodo seized upon that: he would have to consult his notes— But, no. All the materials that had gone into the writing of the Tale of the Ring had been given to Sam, presumably to be destroyed as they had long since served their purpose. Certainly, he might ask Gandalf outright: _Why did you choose Bilbo and me? Had you foreseen that Bilbo would find the Ring?_ In Minas Tirith Gandalf had also said—though Frodo had not wholly understood him at the time—that what he had known as Olórin in the West would be shared only with those in the West—or those, perhaps, who might return with him there. And among those who had returned with him were Bilbo and Frodo. Dared he ask?

And what might Gandalf tell him? Merely that Bilbo had been important? Or that he had known that Bilbo would find the Ring? And if he had known that Bilbo would find the Ring, had he known also that Bilbo would adopt Frodo? Or—had Bilbo adopted Frodo only because Gandalf…?

 _"But of course!"_ the pragmatist within him whispered, _"Now I understand."_

If true, what difference did it really make? Relegating the unhappy thought to the back of his mind, Frodo focused instead on the banter between Gandalf and Bilbo. His heart grew lighter as he watched their affectionate interplay. They laughed and shared old tales throughout the day, drinking innumerable cups of tea, walking in the garden, sitting in the late-day sun, and once evening had descended, taking a light meal that consisted of much of what they had not eaten earlier.

Bilbo was nodding in his chair when Frodo walked with Gandalf across the courtyard and out onto the lawn overlooking the stables. There he came to a halt and looked up at the black sky laced with wisps of clouds and bejeweled with stars. His prediction of rain had failed; the night was fine and mostly clear.

"You were very quiet at the start," Gandalf remarked.

Frodo looked into the old beloved face. He folded his arms across his chest. "I was thinking."

"Yes?"

But Frodo shook his head. "Perhaps some day." He smiled slightly. "It's not terribly important."

Gandalf extended a hand and touched Frodo's cheek. "Good night, my friend."

* * *

A week passed, and another. By Frodo's reckoning, it was the middle of November in the Shire. He and Bilbo had been gone not even two full months. The writing was progressing to his satisfaction and life had taken on a constancy that was equally pleasing. His explorations took him wider afield both into the woods and meadows. Only the day before, he had returned on his own to the high place where both the sea and the sky could be seen, and there he had sat in the protection of stunted gorse, watching the clouds form and rush inland. The light had begun to fail and the winds had stilled and become seaward before he started back.

He had no fear of the dark, nor of the creatures of Valinor, though some could be fearsome and preyed upon each other. None had ever threatened him, though he sometimes heard them in the bracken keeping pace while he passed. He carried a small knife more for utility than defense, but took comfort in its presence. If he had learned nothing else during his time in the wild, it was how to protect himself—even without Sam at his side.

Bilbo had been in a state when he had at last walked through the door into their shared apartments. The journey on horseback, mostly uphill and over uneven ground, had taken an hour or more, and was not much longer on foot. All the same, he had struck off after lunch and it was well past their dinner hour when he returned. He had expected Bilbo to be asleep as he often was in the early evening, though he could not tell him that.

And so this day he stayed close to home, scribbling in his journal and writing, in the larger book, the tale of the quest. Bilbo dozed and woke and sometimes caught Frodo watching him with a vaguely anxious expression. When questioned, Frodo explained that he was trying to remember a particular word or the form of a particular word and was prepared with an example—for there were many—for Bilbo's consideration.

Gandalf arrived just before lunchtime and asked if he might join them. He had not visited for a few days and Frodo had missed him. The last time he had seen the wiz—maia—was in the library the week before, and he had been in rather passionate, if hushed, discussion with Elrond, in the room where the palantír rested on its bed of silk. Their conversation had stopped mid-word when they had, at the same instant, taken note of Frodo. He had greeted them with his usual combination of politeness and joy and had been greeted in a like manner while he took down the book he had been searching for. Sensing that his presence was awkward if not entirely unwelcome, he had inclined his head and removed to another room, thinking that Gandalf might seek him out. He had not, and Frodo had become engrossed in his reading to such an extent that he had given it no further thought. Later, he had remembered and more than half-expected to find him sitting with Bilbo, but the rest of the day had passed and Gandalf was not to be seen.

During lunch they spoke of many things: an upcoming festival day, Frodo's book, Gandalf's journeys between Lórien, Valmar, Taniquetil, and Kortirion, the latter being the high point of Tol Eressëa and where many of the oldest Elves still lived. And then he asked if they would like to ride with him to see a nest of Eaglets. Frodo was at once entranced with the prospect, but looked first to see Bilbo's reaction. The old hobbit nodded to himself before exclaiming, "A small adventure: just what I should like above all things, Gandalf!"

Shadowfax and Rocaran were brought up from the stables. Ellhach helped Frodo mount the tall bay while Gandalf took Bilbo on Shadowfax's back with him. "Isn't there a horse for me?" Bilbo asked.

"These are not ponies, Bilbo, and the ground is too far away from your bones for my peace of mind. Besides, I should like the company."

Frodo, laughing, followed behind, himself a little awed by the distance of his bones to the ground, but confident in Rocaran's ability to keep him in the saddle. They went north out of the courtyard and west away round the edge of the wood. The ground rapidly declined as they neared the stables then leveled at the cultivated lands below. They rode through orchards ripe with apples and peaches and pears—Frodo and Bilbo helped themselves as they passed—and lower still, alongside vineyards and vast vegetable plots.

Not having come this way before, Frodo took everything in, storing it away for future journeys. Bilbo sang, his voice light and clear in the breeze. It was a day slated for rain; they rode for the moment bareheaded, with their cloaks folded behind them. Away from the farms and orchards, the land rose again. Gandalf took a wide, well-kept track, which allowed the horses to proceed at a slow trot. Bilbo's laughter rang out time and again, his voice falling to a chuckle before subsiding altogether. Frodo was grateful to Gandalf for insisting that Bilbo ride with him, for when they came upon the more arduous stretches during which the horses were reduced to a plod, Bilbo, lulled by the slow, steady rhythm of their pace relaxed into the warmth of his friend and drifted into a nap.

"The track is quite sufficient for two," Gandalf said over his shoulder. "Come alongside, now, Frodo."

Rocaran readily responded to Frodo's nudgings and, while the bay kept a respectful half-step behind the great Shadowfax, the riders were soon near enough to converse. "You keep your seat very well," said Gandalf.

Frodo chuckled. "It is Rocaran who keeps me seated."

"He will take you wherever you wish to go. You do know that he is yours now?"

Frodo's brows disappeared beneath his curls. "Mine? What do you mean?"

"Ah." Gandalf shook his head with amusement. "You have not spoken with Celebrían of late, have you?"

"I have seen her in the Great Hall, but she has said nothing to me."

"Rocaran is her gift to you."

"Rocaran is mine?" Frodo marveled aloud. "That's wonderful. But why didn't she say anything?"

"Perhaps she means to still, and I have spoken out of turn."

Frodo leaned forward and patted the horse's neck. "He deserves a far better rider."

"Others will help you to look after him. And he will look after you himself. Bilbo! You are awake again."

"Just closed my eyes for a moment, that's all. Why it's quite beautiful here, isn't it? Reminds me of—what was that place, Gandalf? Where the goblins and wargs had us all treed?"

"A clearing, Bilbo, worthy of no particular note. But, yes, this area bears a certain similarity. It is surrounded by mountains and there are many tall trees."

Bilbo snorted, "You!" and Gandalf allowed a smile to lift the corners of his mouth. And then Bilbo cried, "Look!"

Seemingly out of nowhere, an Eagle soared into view. In fact it had flown round the side of the mountain and risen above the trees just as they reached a curve tightly hugging the rock face. Frodo held his breath as the creature flew overhead, every feather, every scale defining its talons clearly visible.

"Hello, Hisiheru. May we see your children?"Gandalf called politely.

The Eagle banked her wings and landed on a promontory some distance away, yet, given the size of the creature, seemingly very near. "They are feeding, Olórin. The little ones with you may not wish to watch."

"They are not children, Hisiheru."

"As you wish. Keep to the road; you are but a few turnings away. Perhaps, indeed, they will be less peckish by then." The Eagle raised her great wings, facing into the wind, and with a few powerful strokes, was borne upon the air.

Bilbo made a soft sighing sound of wonder and appreciation; Frodo imagined being held in the ring of those fierce-looking talons and suppressed a little shudder. The horses had tolerated the Eagle's company without distress and continued now at their riders' urgings. A scent of musty carnage reached them before they rounded the second turning, climbing ever higher as they went. And then they could see the nest, perhaps a hundred feet above them in a sheltered dip in the rock. Overlooking the rim were two Eaglets, their large, formidable eyes fixed upon them, their sharp hooked beaks smeared with gore.

"Beautiful," Bilbo whispered. Frodo swallowed hard, finding that he had not even a whisper at his command.

With a roar of wings, the parent bird descended, bearing with it something that hung broken and bleeding from her clawed feet. Using one foot and a brief flurry of wings for balance, she dropped the creature into the nest, and those awful eyes forgot them as their beaks began to savage the still warm flesh from the animal's bones. The parent glared down at the riders. "They will soon look after themselves."

Gandalf inclined his head. "Your children are magnificent, Hisiheru."

The bird dipped her head in response.

At an unseen signal, Shadowfax came round, pivoting on his back legs. "I should not like to overstay our welcome," Gandalf murmured and made a clicking noise with his tongue. Frodo's bay fell at once into step as Shadowfax walked past.

Once well away from the Eagle's eyrie, Gandalf took them onto a new path, Bilbo speaking excitedly while Frodo contentedly listened. They rode through tall trees, across a wide but shallow stream, and through a meadow with flowers that brushed the horses' bellies before they entered the cool closeness of another grove of trees. To Frodo's surprise, they had come out of the wood at the opposite end of the orchard, bypassing both vineyards and plantings. He twisted in the saddle and studied the way they had come.

Under the fruit trees, he filled his pockets with peaches and apples snagged from the lower branches without impeding Rocaran's progress. As he bit into a bright red apple, murmuring at its crisp sweetness, Frodo was reminded of Merry, who had always seemed to have an apple in hand if not in mouth: old Merry, who had taken to soldiering like a bee to hive-making. Frodo chewed more slowly, remembering that last day at the Havens. Trust Gandalf to give him away to Merry and Pippin, when Frodo had counted on Sam to break the news to them some time after his departure. In the end, it had turned out all right, with more good-byes and sadness than he had desired, but in trade he had been given a chance to make his farewells to everyone—and there had been companions for Sam during the long ride home.

Frodo tossed the spindly core onto the pungent heap outside the orchard, a collection of all manner of refuse which would, come autumn, provide fuel for a bonfire. Not autumn, he reminded himself. There was no autumn in Valinor. Perhaps, then, at the end of summer, before the weather cooled into spring. Shaking his head wryly, Frodo saw Ellhach appear from the stable door. The Elf lifted Bilbo off Shadowfax's back, made certain that Bilbo had his feet firmly planted, then continued on to Frodo. Frodo handed him the reins and jumped down. Then he went round to the bay's head and fed him an apple, careful to keep his fingers away from the horse's massive teeth. "Thank you, Rocaran," Frodo said. "And thank you, Ellhach."

"I shall see that he is taken care of, Frodo," Ellhach replied, "if you would like to catch them up."

"I would." Frodo hurried up the slope, though he did not have far to go: Gandalf and Bilbo were proceeding at a very sedate pace and showed no signs of increasing it.

As he came alongside them, Frodo heard Bilbo saying, "…on the balcony. The one all the way up there."

"Yes, I see her," Gandalf said.

With the sun low in the sky and angling across their shoulders, Frodo could see her, too, and quite clearly. It was the Lady Celebrían, and she appeared to be watching them. Her hand was at her throat, but as they reached the edge of the lawn, she took her fingers away. Light glinted at her neck, as if she had been cupping a small fire in her palm. Frodo knew what it was at once, and bowed his head. If she noticed the gesture, she gave no sign in return. By the time they entered the courtyard, she was gone and long shadows from the woods were darkening the stone tiles. Frodo touched his chest, which felt oddly bare, and then let his hand fall to his side.

* * *

That evening, as they sat before the fire, Frodo asked Bilbo about Ellhach. "Has Gandalf said anything about him? Perhaps before I came across the bay?"

"Nothing that I recall." Bilbo shrugged. "He was on the ship with us, you know."

"So you have said." Frodo cast his mind back. His clearest memories of that time were of things that had never happened. "I don't remember him."

"Sadly, you were not yourself. Though you are now reasonably improved." Bilbo chuckled at his little joke and slumped back in his chair. There were new lines about his face, and his jowls hung like unleavened dough. "A most amiable Elf. He looked after us when we ate with Elrond; even then. But he has said nothing about himself in all this time, nor, regrettably have I thought to ask." He yawned and closed his eyes, folding his hands across his girth.

The flames in the hearth flickered and swayed, and the wood crackled with a comforting familiarity. Before long, soft snores joined the staccato symphony. Frodo stared sleepily into the fire. Bilbo had weathered the exertions of the day well, but Frodo knew he was exhausted. His strength waxed and waned like a sultry breeze on the Brandywine in mid-summer. It was probably silly worrying about the old hobbit: they were in Valinor and Bilbo had regained an astonishing vigor since their arrival. And yet— Bilbo's face was wreathed with weariness. His hands were curled at his waist like claws, their veins ropey and darkly blue, and he was thinner than he used to be. Frodo sighed softly. As it often did when his thoughts were unsettled, his hand went to his neck and the stone that hung from its silver chain there. But it was gone now. The absence of it brought the memory of Celebrían to mind, standing on her balcony, the star gem at her throat.

He said, suddenly: "She must think I gave it to her as thanks for the horse!" Squirming at the thought, he wondered just when she had given him Rocaran. "Or did she give me the horse because I—?"

"Neither, Frodo." Bilbo yawned extravagantly. "Hm, I think I must away to my bed."

"What do you mean, Bilbo?"Frodo asked. "'Neither'?"

Bilbo turned sleep-soft eyes on his companion. "You do fret, don't you? She told Gandalf some days ago that you were to have the pretty red mare. And your gift reached her before you could be told."

Frodo unconsciously relaxed. "I am glad to hear it." He stood at once to lend Bilbo a hand out of his chair. "I think sometimes that she quite detests me, Bilbo."

"I'm sure she does, Frodo. You are a foul creature, aren't you?"

At Frodo's startled expression, Bilbo patted his cheek and grinned with his old mischief. "So serious, too."

* * *

As the days passed, Frodo fell into the habit of going to the high overlook, where he could sit for hours and stare out over the sea and let his thoughts stray. He learned to time his visits there to coincide with Bilbo's periods of rest.

Among his earliest memories were evenings in the family room at Buck Hall and Bilbo, his back to the fire, speaking with glowing eyes of Elves and Men. Often he had recounted the tale of Númenor and the terrible disturbance of the water surrounding that island and how it had sunk, _sunk_ beneath enormous waves. In a conspiratorial whisper guaranteed to hush the rowdiest of children he had described the bending of the earth and the removal forever of the land of the Valar, all that remaining being uncountable miles of sea. For years Frodo had imagined that great collection of waters, stretching out seemingly forever on either hand. But his imagination had been insufficient to encompass the vastness that surrounded them now and which met the sky at the horizon, a fading into the mists rather than a clear demarcation between air and water. Or perhaps in his rolling, closely bordered Shire he had been incapable of seeing enough sky to believe that a horizon visible through three of the major points on the compass might be possible.

One warm afternoon found him perched on a rock, Rocaran grazing beneath a tree some distance away. He had set aside his journal and perched as near the edge as he dared, seeking a breeze to lift his curls from his sweaty brow and neck. The stirring of air, when it came, was not a breeze but a sudden downsweeping gust, strong enough to rock him—but his first inkling that it might be dangerous was when Rocaran let out a high-pitched, chilling scream.

He had an impression of darkness—the sun was cast into shadow—then something caught him from behind in a sweeping nudge that sent him hurtling far out over nothingness. He was too stunned to cry out, even as his tumbling trajectory failed, and he began to fall. Through the roar of blood in his ears he faintly heard the bay's bugled distress. Below him, he could see the base of the precipice rushing upward. And then he did cry out. The last echoes of his voice were still ringing in his ears when something banded about his chest and hips and his descent was abruptly stalled. Breathless, he wrapped an arm about the scaly thing—the other being trapped—and twisted round just enough to see the feathered breast above him. On either side great wings thrust up and down taking them higher and higher and farther away from the mountainside until Frodo could make out the very spot where he had been sitting and Rocaran's agitated form, small now, like a dwarvish mechanical toy, running in tight circles, so close to the edge that Frodo felt a twinge of added horror.

An instant later, the horse was forgotten: shockingly, the Eagle threw its wings forward and rocked backward—a sudden braking motion—and loosed Frodo from its talons, sending him skyward once more. He spun uncontrollably, then, inevitably, began to fall again. His thoughts spun with equal abandon: the memory of the broken, reddened thing dropped into the Eagle's nest; Bilbo, his face crumpled with grief at news of Frodo's death; his own foolishness in believing himself safe to explore freely; the terrible, sick sensation as he fell and fell and fell.

Something came up from beneath him and he grasped at it. It was as soft as his old featherbed in Bag End; softer, for these feathers were attached to a living bird. It spoke to him, in a voice like distant thunder: "Frodo Baggins."

His heart pounding in his throat, Frodo could not have replied had he tried.

The Eagle said, "I can bear you on my wing for a little while yet, Little Elf, but in time it should grow weary and you should fall. Stir yourself onto my back."

Frodo had landed just past the joint of wing and trunk. Slowly he unclenched his fingers from the long feathers and began to inch his way toward the more solid mass of the bird's body, opening his eyes as he crept along. The Eagle compensated for his weight and movements, ensuring that Frodo did not fall again.

"That's better," the Eagle said.

"Where are you taking me?" Frodo gasped, clinging to the short feathers at the nape of the creature's neck. "Why—?"

"My name is Soronlómë. And I have carried you before. You did not think I would eat you, Little Elf?"

"No," Frodo said quickly. And then he exhaled loudly. "All right, yes, I thought you might."

"I should not do so unless you were not living. You are living, are you not?"

Trembling with the after-effects of shock and chilled to his core, Frodo wondered if he would know the difference. "I am living," he said anyway, suspecting that the Eagle might choose to quibble if he did not make the point clear.

The bird made a strange chirring sound at Frodo's adamance. "I should not eat you even then," he stated, "but carry your body whole back to your kin, as Olórin would have it."

"Where are you taking me, Soron—Soronlómë?"

"I am commanded by Manwë at his maia's request to deliver you to him."

"To Manwë?" Frodo blurted.

"To Olórin." The Eagle made that chirring sound again; Frodo did not find it comforting. "He desired that you be returned to him as quickly as I might fly."

"Do you—do you know why?"

"It was Manwë's command. I do not question the Great Lord, Little Elf."

Frodo thought of Bilbo drowsing in his favorite chair in the garden earlier this morning, looking so weary and old. His heart sank and he had to bite his lip against a surge of dread. "I am not an Elf, you know," he said huskily. "I am a hobbit."

"You are Olórin's exception."

"I'm sorry?"

"You are here in the realm of the Valar because Olórin asked it—and Manwë will refuse him nothing. I heard Him say so," the Eagle said proudly. Then: "You shall not tell Olórin that I frightened you?"

"No. Of course not."

"You were very brave. I should not know that you were frightened but for the thrumming of your heart. I can feel it, you know. Hold on now."

Frodo's grip tightened as the Eagle alternately folded back its wings and spread them wide so that they dropped toward the meadow where Frodo often sat alone. From afar he saw a tall familiar figure and beside it a great white horse: Ellhach was waiting for him with Shadowfax. The dread increased.

Soronlómë glided downward, wings and tail feathers cupping the air as they neared the earth. The wind of their flight ended as the Eagle touched down; Frodo at last let his trembling fingers relax. Ellhach, only a few yards away, strode forward. "Come, Frodo," he said and reached up. The Eagle bobbed its head, bending its neck toward the ground, and Frodo was handed down into the tall grass. "Shadowfax will take you to Elrond's door," Ellhach said. Frodo staggered toward the horse, his legs surprisingly weak. "Let me help you," the Elf murmured, and swooped Frodo into the air, much as the Eagle had, and planted him on Shadowfax's back. Frodo had only an instant to loop his hand in a length of mane before the horse wheeled and stretched out his long legs and broke into a gallop across the meadow. Frodo glanced behind, gratitude on his lips, but Soronlómë was already rising into the air. He flew overhead, letting out a loud, earsplitting scree, then banked away back toward the mountain.

From the instant that Frodo had been knocked off the precipice until Shadowfax thundered into the courtyard, only minutes could have passed; but to him it seemed far longer, and his concern for Bilbo coupled with the unorthodox method of his journey had left his nerves quite raw. In the courtyard, Cirlad ran up to meet Shadowfax. Without asking permission, he shifted Frodo off the horse's broad back and stood him on the stones. "Lord Elrond awaits you in the library, Frodo. Go quickly."

But Frodo stood as if rooted. "The library?" He turned toward the apartments he shared with Bilbo, on the other side of the courtyard.

"Yes. You must hurry." As Frodo seemed incapable of movement, the Elf placed a hand upon his shoulder and hastened with him through the opening.

"What about Bilbo?"

"He, too, is in the library. Come, Frodo, there is little time!"

At those words, Frodo broke into a run. In the main chamber, Celebrían greeted him coolly, as if hobbits running at breakneck speed were an every day sight in her lord's rooms. "Walk with me," she said, and held out her hand.

"Is he all right?" Frodo exclaimed.

Celebrían glanced sharply down at him. "Who, Frodo?"

"Bilbo. He's here, isn't he?"

"Why, yes. He is with my Lord Elrond. It is Olórin who awaits you. Through here." She led him into the chamber in which the palantír resided on its bed of silk, but Frodo did not even glance at it, looking for Bilbo—and there he was, sitting in a chair at the end of the room next to Elrond, who held open a large book, one which they were both studying.

"Bilbo," Frodo gasped.

"He's perfectly all right, Frodo," Gandalf said. He stood between one of the broad cushioned benches and a delicately carved table, upon which a pillow had been placed. In the middle of the pillow was the palantír. Frodo glanced up at the plinth upon which the stone usually rested; indeed, it now stood empty. "Come here to me."

Bilbo had noticed him at last. He smiled and made a shooing motion with his hand.

"What is it, Gandalf?" Frodo asked, confused.

"We have but seconds, Frodo," Gandalf said, and lowered himself to the padded bench. "And I must prepare you as best I may. Sit here, before me." Awkwardly, Frodo obeyed, hitching himself up and into the space between Gandalf's legs. "This is the seeing stone of Elostírion. Elrond brought it with him on the White Ship as a gift for his lady. He has altered its essence so that it can look backward, across the Sundering Seas, to the land we left behind."

Frodo shot him a sudden comprehending look.

"The Lady Celebrían has used it, but only rarely, for there are grave demands placed upon anyone who gazes into this palantír. I do not have time to explain, but you will need me here to help you."

"I'll be able to see the Shire?" Frodo asked.

"Perhaps. Your guide at the counterpart stone will determine that. You need not speak aloud, for your mind will know the thoughts of the one who awaits you—and he yours." Gandalf's brow was furrowed and his eyes dark with reluctance. "I do not know your strength in this. I cannot promise that you will not feel its effects—you may even be injured, for it is a very powerful device. It must, therefore, be your choice. But you must choose quickly. In fact, you must choose at once."

Without hesitation, Frodo said, "Yes." He nodded his head for emphasis. "I choose yes."

Gandalf took a deep breath and drew the table nearer. Then he placed Frodo's hands about the smooth, gleaming surface, covering them with his own.

At the other end of the room, Frodo heard Bilbo say, "Look, Elrond, they have begun. How I wish that I—"

But the stone began to glow, as if it held in its depths the makings of dawn. The light grew brighter, swirling outward from the center. There were _things_ caught in its brilliance, and they seemed to be moving, changing from dark to grey to light, things that began to resolve themselves into landscapes—landscapes as far away as the earth when viewed from the back of an Eagle. Rivers lay before them, and valleys, and great sweeping plains fenced about by tall, jagged mountains. Frodo's eyes widened as he recognized the White City of Minas Tirith and Mount Mindolluin at its back. He seemed to swoop downward, measuring the drop from mountaintop to the courtyard where the White Tree still flourished, past forms that Frodo only glimpsed in the stone's haste to convey him to its destination.

"Frodo. Welcome, my friend." The voice inside his head was as familiar as the rough visage that appeared in the depths of the stone.

"Aragorn!"

"It is good to see you," Aragorn said. He had aged little since Frodo had seen him last, his beard perhaps a little grayer, his gaze a touch more careworn. But there was great affection in that gaze, along with strength and unmistakable contentment.

"Aragorn, how—?" Frodo began.

"Hush," Aragorn commanded. "I have much to show you, but we dare risk only a few minutes. Gandalf will help us." The familiar face faded from view, replaced by the inside of a room—one, Frodo realized with a tiny shock, that he recognized. "This is a special year in Gondor. My friends from all over the kingdom have come to celebrate the harvest with me. Look out onto the courtyard. You know them all."

Dizzyingly, the perspective changed from the inside of the room to the far end of a balcony and almost at once downward to the courtyard below the balcony, another aspect Frodo remembered. There, the figures that had been blurs became whole beings. "Sam!" Frodo whispered, knowing that face and form, though he caught only a glimpse before Sam turned toward a young hobbit maid who stood before him, holding an infant in colorful wrappings, its little face barely visible. The hobbit was not Rose Cotton, but she— "I've finished my writing for the day. Let me hold young Tom, Elanor."

_Elanor?_

"Always writing," the maid said, as she carefully laid the child in Sam's arms, "just like your dear Mr. Frodo."

"Never like Mr. Frodo, my lovely Elanor" Sam said wryly, "for he knew how to write, bless him." Sam shifted about so that his face was visible again. Frodo blinked, wanting to rub his eyes, but not daring to close them. Sam had aged! He was perhaps four or five years older by the look of him—but only weeks had passed since Frodo had seen him last! Otherwise, he looked happy and healthy. He was dressed well—as befit the owner of Bag End—and seemed quite at ease holding the tiny form in his arms. A laugh made Frodo look past Sam to the liveried hobbit leaning against a stone railing. "Just like Frodo," Pippin said, grinning. "Our Sam has followed the tradition of Bag End's former masters, including writing and writing and writing."

"It would not hurt the Thain to put his pen to parchment," observed Merry with mock archness—for there he was, too, slouching against the other end of the curved railing that ran behind Sam and his daughter.

Frodo knew their faces and voices nearly as well as his own, but Merry and this Pippin were significantly older than Sam, by a decade or more. It was not possible that they could have aged so—

Merry and Pippin were laughing. Sam's head was bent over his infant son. There were other young people and children scattered about, Frodo saw now, and Elanor went to speak with them. She was uncannily beautiful, her face glowing with an Elvish light; Frodo had seen a hint of that in the baby he had held in his arms in Bag End, but could not have guessed what the final result would be. He realized that he was watching Sam's children—five, six, eight, ten—? Several bearing his look scampered about like puppies and he could not easily put a count to them. As they gamboled, he concluded that not all of them were Sam's. Surely that was a Took, and there another. And that young lad was quite certainly Merry's offspring.

"Aragorn," Frodo whispered, "What year in the Shire?"

"In the Shire, Frodo," Aragorn replied equally softly, "it is 1442."

"But that's—"

"Gandalf will explain."

"And you, Gimli, what have you written this day?" Frodo's attention was drawn to the lanky, longhaired Elf garbed in flowing robes, who stood with arms folded near the fountain, several feet behind Merry.

"Every bit as much as you, my dear Legolas," his companion replied darkly. "Exactly nothing." It was Gimli, pipe in hand, propped up by the stonework, a rush of smoke issuing through the thatches of his beard. "What a whirlwind of children these hobbits have," he remarked with a hint of alarm.

Sam was singing to his son, a common hobbit tune but with words that Sam had created in the tower of Cirith Ungol. Above the ruckus surrounding him—the children's high pealing laughter, Merry and Pippin's boisterous chat, and the sudden tolling of a great bell—Frodo could hear him clearly—just as he had heard him that afternoon years ago, his voice bringing Frodo hope when he had believed there was none to be had, ever again. Now it brought a deep yearning for what he had given up—though he had believed himself reconciled to its loss.

"Frodo, would you see the Shire?"

Salt stung his eyes but Frodo said, "Yes." The image of Sam lingered in his mind as Aragorn sent him on a swift journey through the fields of Gondor, across the grasslands of Rohan, along the Misty Mountains, and outward into the downy country of the Shire. He saw once more the gently rolling hills of Hobbiton, the Water, Bag End with its immaculately kept gardens, and the mallorn tree, which had been full-bodied but small the year he had left, now grown larger than the party tree in its glory. The bounty of the Shire was everywhere: hobbits bent with the weight of baskets of fruit and vegetables, the fields ripe for harvest, the water shining blue and clean, and the air above all pure and sweet. A queer sensation, something like pain but far more disorienting, twisted inside him, and Frodo felt as though he were floating free of his body.

"I must send you back now, Frodo." Aragorn's thought was tinged with regret. At once the Shire receded into the distance.

"Aragorn—!"

"Your strength is waning. I will not have you injured, though it grieves me to bid you farewell so soon."

"No—"

"Good bye, my friend," Aragorn said, and his voice grew as vague and remote as the Shire.

"Aragorn, wait—" Frodo pleaded.

"Frodo. Frodo, let go." Gandalf was with him, somehow inside him. Gasping, Frodo could not refuse his call, for all at once he was too weak, it seemed, even to breathe.

From across the room, Bilbo spoke sharply. "Elrond! Can they be done so soon?"

"Lie here, Frodo; rest your head against me. Do not attempt to move."

Another leaned over him. "I feared that it would be too much for him, Gandalf," Elrond said, the back of his hand skimming over Frodo's cheek and forehead.

"I saw them," Frodo wheezed. "I saw them, Bilbo, and they were—" His words were lost as a sudden darkness came up out of nowhere and swallowed him whole.

* * *

He awoke in darkness. For a moment he lay still, a creature of no beginning and no end, no fear, no joy: just awareness. It was cool, the chill of pre-dawn; he himself was warm, in fact too warm, buried beneath soft blankets and a thick counterpane; and there were voices that he knew, across the room near the archway, several strides away.

"—all right, Bilbo. He is only sleeping."

"I saw his face," Bilbo said, in a tone of emphatic repetition. "He looked like death itself."

"It was a strenuous exercise for him," Gandalf countered, sounding, too, as if he had said these words before. "Elrond assured you he is already recovered. You'll see, come morning."

"I couldn't bear to lose him, Gandalf. You know that. Not like this; not after all he's been through."

"Stop your worrying, old friend."

"Bilbo." Frodo's voice was feeble but steady.

"Frodo, my dear!" Bilbo hurried to his side. His eyes gradually adjusting to the paling dark, Frodo watched his approach. "You've given me a terrible turn, Frodo."

"Have I been sleeping long?" Frodo asked. "Gandalf?"

"Two days."

"Hm." Drowsily, he turned his cheek into Bilbo's palm. "I saw them all, Bilbo. Aragorn, Sam, Merry, and Pippin. But they were older—not Sam; that is, he didn't seem to have aged so much as the others. Pippin— _Pippin!_ —had a wing of white in his hair, Merry's was quite threaded with it, through and through. And Elanor"—he whooped for air—"Elanor was a grown hobbit!"

"Hush, lad," Bilbo crooned. "You can tell me all about it once you've regained your strength."

"How can that be?" Frodo whispered.

"Rest a while, Frodo," Gandalf said. "Your questions can wait."

"We'll talk later," Bilbo said, when Frodo tried to draw breath to protest. "I'll remind you of all the tales you seem to have forgotten. Go on, close your eyes now. I could use a few hours of sleep myself, you know."

"I'm sorry, Bilbo." Frodo meant to say more, but found that he was simply too tired to make the effort. Bilbo's fingers caressed his temple, and he murmured soothing nonsense. As his hand was taken into an old soft palm, Frodo surrendered to slumber once more.

* * *

"And you saw the Shire?"

"Yes. And the lands between. The Misty Mountains, Bilbo, as if I were on the back of a Great Eagle!"

They lingered together in the garden later that morning, Frodo with a length of wool across his lap at Bilbo's insistence and yet another cup of tea in his hand. He had eaten to the bursting point, but his hunger was scarcely assuaged. Ellhach had wordlessly replenished the plate of toast, fruit, and cheese, and Frodo continued to pick at it.

Bilbo nodded his approval. "You know what that is like now, at last. No other hobbit has flown upon an Eagle _three times_!"

"Twice without my knowledge," Frodo appended scrupulously.

"To soar above the earth is a wonderful—and terrifying—thing."

"Oh! Terrifying!" Frodo explained how Soronlómë had flung him out over the void, not once but twice. Astonishingly, he had forgotten all about his Eagle flight, until reminded by Bilbo. He would not tell Gandalf; he had promised.

"There was nothing else he could do," Bilbo said unsympathetically. "His orders were very strict: bring you with all haste to Elrond's house.

"I doubt it would have added ten seconds, had he explained himself."

"You are a hobbit full of questions," Bilbo laughed. "Ten seconds would not have answered."

Frodo conceded that with a soft grunt. "Perhaps not." He took another rectangle of toast from the plate and nibbled at one end.

"I should like to have seen Minas Tirith," Bilbo mused. "The White Tree, Mount Mindolluin. Tell me of Minas Tirith."

"It was flourishing, as were all the lands about the city," Frodo said. "The White City was more beautiful than in my…last visit." A slight frown touched his brows. "But in twenty-one years, of course, there would be no remnants of devastation. All the land was healed; the homes rebuilt. Twenty-one years: or so Aragorn said."

"You have forgotten the old tales, Frodo," Bilbo gently chided. "A travesty, since you now live in that place where those tales were born."

"But they were only tales when you told them to me, Bilbo! It is not even two months since we left the Shire. How can _twenty-one years_ have gone by there?"

"In Middle-earth many years pass during a single year in Valinor."

"How many?"

"Ask Elrond if you desire a precise answer. Or Gandalf. Or Galadriel. More than a hundred, or I misremember."

"But how can that be? Gandalf says that we share the same moon and sun, and yet—"

"We are outside the gates of Middle-earth now, Frodo. The rules are different."

While Frodo took another bite of toast and Bilbo sipped his tea, birdsong and the chittering of a squirrel overtook the silence between them. At last Frodo mumbled, "I do not know if I like that."

Bilbo chuckled, but not unkindly. "Not yours to like or dislike. That is how it is. This is our country now, Frodo."

That evening Frodo sat beside Bilbo before the fire, and in the flames he saw Sam and his children, the White City and the Shire, and somehow they seemed farther away than ever, a thing he would not have believed possible. A while later, after waking Bilbo and helping him to his room, Frodo retired to his own bed, and there he lay, staring up at the ceiling swathed in darkness. The loss he had felt at leaving the Shire had been tolerable knowing that life there continued at its normal plod. But that normal plod was in fact advancing at an alarming speed: at this rate, before the year was over, everyone he had known and loved would be dead. The thought made his insides contract. He squeezed his eyes shut, hating the tears that broke through, hating himself and everything that had brought him to this moment. Sleep was a long time coming, and with it came dreams of despair and loss.

"One hundred and forty-four years," Gandalf said, eyeing Frodo critically, "for every Valian year."

They sat in the garden beside the small breakfast table. Bilbo slept with his chin on his chest, his fingers loosely coupled at his waist. Frodo's appetite of the previous day was quite gone. He warmed his hands round his mug and ignored the plate of toast and cheese heaped high before him. "Bilbo says I should have remembered that," Frodo murmured. Bilbo's snores contributed softly to their conversation, he having downed all of his breakfast and some of Frodo's.

"I doubt that he ever knew it that precisely himself." Gandalf smiled. "Will you walk with me, Frodo? The sun is kind yet, and Ellhach will look after him."

"Of course." Out of habit, Frodo pushed his hands into his pockets and strolled across the courtyard to the lawn that led east down to the meadow. The morning was cool with the first touches of warmth light in the air. The breeze came up the slope and lifted Frodo's hair.

"Was it a mistake allowing you look into the palantír?" Gandalf asked.

"No," Frodo said quickly.

"Elrond did not approve it, you know." Gandalf nodded for emphasis. "He feared that it would be too great a shock for you, both of the mind and the body."

"I am glad you talked him into it," Frodo said.

Gandalf laughed. "You assume that I did that."

"Didn't you?"

"In part." At Frodo's questioning expression, he added, "The Lady Celebrían was an even stauncher supporter."

"Celebrían?"

"It was she who saw that there was to be a gathering of our friends." Gandalf's robes caught on waist-high thistles, but he strode on, unslowed. "She need not have said anything. But she understood it to be a rare occasion. Perhaps the last you might have of seeing everyone together. Our fellowship."

"That was very kind of her," Frodo acknowledged with quiet astonishment.

They waded through the tall grass and taller wildflowers. Frodo heard the sharp cry of an Eagle in the far distance, and his heart accelerated.

"But—?" Gandalf prodded.

Frodo glanced up at him, startled. Then he turned away, and plucked a yellow flower on its stem. "I never thought I'd see them again." In his mind, Frodo was inside Aragorn's thought once more, sharing his eyes, his knowledge. "It was…I could not have dreamt it."

"But—?"

"In my mind nothing had changed," Frodo said on a low, anxious note. "But it had…for them." He gave Gandalf a raw look. "Pippin is nearly as old as I am! When I left, he wasn't even of age. Sam must be over 60—even if he doesn't show it."

"It _was_ a mistake, then, allowing you to look into the stone?"

"No!" Frodo's chest rose and fell with the force of his sigh. "I'm very grateful. At least I know…I know they are all well, and happy. And the Shire: it's beautiful again."

For some distance they walked together unspeaking, Frodo twirling the flower in his hand, watching the petals spin and spin. At last they broke through the other end of the meadow, where the ground dropped off and curved into a copse of poplars. "It cannot always be summer, can it, Gandalf?"

The wizard stood with his head lifted into the breeze, his hair streaming over his shoulders, his eyes brilliantly blue and far-seeing. "It cannot. Not even here." He tilted his gaze toward Frodo. "After another month the rains of late summer will begin. It is not autumn, as you know it, but there will be a period of change. And then the mornings will turn fresh—you will need a cloak to sit in your garden—and the evenings chill: the beginning of spring in Valinor."

The future not something he wished to contemplate, Frodo contained a small shiver. "Was this the right thing, Gandalf," he whispered, "for Bilbo and me to come here?"

Gandalf's features softened. "For me, yes." Bending lower toward his friend, his eyes filled with compassion, he stated, "And for you as well, I hope."

* * *

In the days that followed, the debilitating effects of his experience began to wear off, and Frodo's natural buoyancy reasserted itself. At every opportunity, Bilbo probed his recollection of his experience, teasing forth details that surprised even Frodo: from the color and fabric of Sam's jacket (woodland green, probably velvet) and the hue of the newest Gamgee's hair (that singular shade of strawberries a day or two before they are fully ripe); to the names of all the children, including Pippin's son Faramir  
and Merry's daughter Rosamunda; and even shockingly to the presence of King Éomer and his Queen Lothíriel and their son Elfwine (standing in the shade of the White Tree) and Prince Faramir and his princess Éowyn and their sons (rendering their best wishes to Sam's wife Rosie, who sat blushing a few feet from Sam). Thanks to Bilbo's persistence, Frodo's memories grew sharper as he grew stronger.

In secret, Frodo devised a calendar to track the passage of time in Middle-earth. The calculations involved gave him a headache, and he was not at all certain of his conclusions when he was done. But based on what Gandalf had told him, he determined that two and a half days spent in Valinor amounted to a year in Middle-earth. His calendar began with the day he had visited the Shire.

Time, something to which he had paid little attention before, began to consume him. He had always been aware that it would run out in due course—and that due course had never been a source of fear. But now time had turned into a creature with two heads: one seemingly friendly and docile; the other full of treachery and malice. He kept company with Bilbo, for whom sleep had become the fondest of companions, but he did not fear for him, because they were in Valinor, and here Bilbo might drowse away his last years in peace. Years that would have been lost to him altogether in Middle-earth. But he fretted over those in the Shire and in Gondor, because their years now marched to a frenetically fast beat, or so it seemed to him.

Gandalf seemed to notice his preoccupation and took it upon himself to command Frodo's attention when Bilbo was otherwise occupied: reading in his garden, sharing an afternoon of conversation with Elrond, or sleeping in the sitting room undisturbed. With Gandalf, Frodo explored the nearer reaches of their island home. He spoke with Eagles and rode through long green valleys, the wind lifting his curls and sending his cloak flapping behind him. Frodo sensed that Gandalf was somehow changed too, though he could not winkle out of him why or entirely how. He imagined that he harbored some sort of foreboding, and wondered sometimes if it shared the same roots as his own concerns. Gandalf had made that journey to Middle-earth through the palantír with him, had seen his friends aged and changed, and although he had traveled far away from them just as Frodo had done, his love, Frodo was quite certain, had not lessened.

* * *

A month passed—twelve years in Middle-earth—and the steady rains that Gandalf had promised arrived, heralding the fading of summer. Frodo resumed his occasional rides to the overlook to stare out over the misty waters of the sea, though more than once he was driven home beneath a cloudburst of pelting rain which seemed to annoy him more than Rocaran, who cantered over the familiar path, mane and tale flying. His writing of the Ring Tale occupied his mornings and evenings: he had begun to feel an inexplicable urgency to complete it. Bilbo and Ellhach helped him to select the proper words and phrases, for his Elvish, while noticeably improved, was still not sufficient to the complexity of this task. His ineptness did provide a sort of insulation between him and the subject matter as it necessarily became darker and sometimes altogether loathsome: focusing on _words_ made the experiences they described somehow less profound and, more importantly, less capable of wounding.

On a day when he could not maintain a safe distance between words and feelings, Frodo struck out for the tree-lined ridge north of Elrond's grounds and the wood that belonged to Galadriel. The morning was clear and still, with no trace of rain or wind, and he could hear her singing long before he peered from behind the bracken that edged her clearing. She sat before her loom but her hands lay still in her lap. She turned to Frodo and welcomed him with a smile. He went to her and sat at her feet, as he had done many times before. They did not speak. Her voice, high and sweet, continued its song. It soothed him in a way that nothing could: not sitting with Bilbo, taking Gandalf's counsel, or sipping Elrond's restorative teas.

The song ended, and stillness fell about them, like withered petals from blooming trees. Frodo opened his eyes and turned them upward toward Galadriel. She was studying him, her gaze gentle but knowing. "You have suffered much, Frodo Baggins," she remarked. "But you are strong." She smiled again—it seemed a little sadly—but it felt like the touch of his mother's fingers on his brow, and he was filled with peace. "Remember that."

He returned home in sunshine, no longer scorching, and he ambled under its warmth, mulling the next section of the Tale. The book lay on the table in his room, where he had left it. He moved about quietly, for it was mid-morning, and Bilbo was probably nestled in his padded chair for a nap. In the kitchen, he filled the kettle and put it on to boil. The table was clear save for a bowl of apples, and this he kept within easy reach as he arranged the book, ink bottle and pen. By the time tea was brewing, Frodo was already writing. He remembered to pour before it was quite too late, and then sat there sipping and scratching the paper with his quill, while the cup slowly cooled.

Voices came to him through the open window as he contemplated the next section and how to begin it. His brows rose as he recognized Bilbo's pleased tones. A few seconds later, the smell of tobacco smoke wafted in through the open window.

"Yes," Bilbo said. "That will do perfectly." A sound of exhalation, and a distinctly grey cloud floated from the direction of the bench outside Frodo's line of sight. "Hmm. Makes it taste better somehow, knowing."

"You're quite certain?" That was Gandalf. "You mean to do this?"

"Don't be tiresome, Gandalf, please," Bilbo said tetchily. Frodo suppressed a smile and tried to concentrate.

"Tiresome, am I?"

Bilbo laughed. He sounded as young and carefree as when Frodo had first met him. "Always badgering me, that's you." His laughter subsided to a chuckle. "In the best way, of course."

Another surge of smoke wafted in front of the window. "Have you told Frodo?" 

A wordless murmuring. "No," Bilbo said at last. "I shall. Of course." In the silence that followed, Frodo discovered that he was holding his breath.

"It is not the same as going to Rivendell, you know," Gandalf said thoughtfully.

"So I am told," Bilbo countered with some satisfaction. And then: "He'll be all right. There's none better than my Frodo. None stronger." Frodo's hand seemed to have gone numb: the nib of his pen was pressed into the paper. He raised it jerkily, then stared sightlessly at the still widening blotch. Bilbo continued, "And Sam will be coming. Soon, I expect."

"That is surmise on my part, Bilbo," Gandalf remarked. "Though I believe it to be sound."

"Well, I harbor no doubt," Bilbo said with assurance. "Sam always adored Frodo. Would have died for him. Nearly did, didn't he?" He sighed. "You will look after him for me?"

"Ah." Gandalf made a deep rumbling noise in his chest. "You asked that of me once before, and I rather failed."

"It's different this time," Bilbo said tartly, "and you know it!"

The silence stretched between them. Frodo could picture Bilbo's stubborn expression: he had seen it often enough.

"Yes, Bilbo. As long as he will put up with it."

"Well, then." Bilbo was satisfied; Frodo could hear it in his plummy voice. "All as it should…."

A soft but audible tread sounded at the doorway. Frodo looked round, startled. Ellhach stood there, eyes fixed curiously on Frodo, who gazed back at him with shock and dismay. "Are you—?" began the Elf, only to have his words interrupted by Bilbo's sharp tones: "Frodo, is that you?" Ellhach seemed to assess the situation in an instant and smoothly walked to the window, effectively blocking it. "It is I," he said blandly. "A pot of tea and some biscuits, perhaps?"

"Oh, Ellhach. Yes, that would be lovely, lovely. Thank you."

Frodo collected his things and fled.

It was too soon. They had been here scarcely three months. Bilbo was doing so much better. It was too soon.

"Is there something I can do for you, Frodo?" Ellhach asked quietly, standing at his shoulder.

Frodo found that he had come to a halt in the corridor, clutching his writing things to his chest and staring at nothing. He did not object when Ellhach eased the perilously canted ink cup and bunched-up papers from his grip and carefully arranged everything on a hall table.

"I did not mean to eavesdrop," Frodo whispered thickly.

"You have heard unhappy news?"

"Yes. Bilbo means to—" Frodo gnawed at his lip. "But maybe I misunderstood."

Ellhach said nothing, and yet Frodo did not imagine that he saw a glint of pity in the Elf's eyes. "I shall bring you a—"

Frodo interrupted sharply, "No, thank you, Ellhach." He shook his head. "I must go out for a bit. Just a short walk." He felt the Elf's concern and forced a ragged smile. "Thank you, Ellhach. But I am quite…." He bit his lip hard; he must not allow the tears that threatened to spill.

"Go safely," Ellhach said.

It was cool under the broad canopy of trees, and Frodo sat shivering in the added shadow of an oak thicket, invisible to any who might pass this way. There were none but the forest's natural denizens to sense him, and aside from a doe and two spotted fawns, who had passed close by him, they had so far shown no interest. He had walked for hours, penetrating far enough into the wood that climbed the mountainside to be assured of solitude. Exhaustion at last had brought him to a halt. His knees were drawn up to his chest, his arms wrapped tightly round them. His eyes burned; not from tears, but from their denial. He could not bear his thoughts. They spun round inside his head like a vortex. He wanted desperately to believe that he had misunderstood Bilbo's words, but he could not. Indeed, it was something he ought to have expected. And perhaps he had. Perhaps he was better at lying to himself than he knew.

A thick chill settled on the forest as the sun westered behind the mountain. He had not been there long before he knew he must return home. A sort of numbness, a blessed numbness, had come over him. Holding it to himself like a shield, he set one foot in front of the other, and slowly retraced his steps.

There was only Ellhach to greet him: Bilbo was across the courtyard, visiting Elrond. Frodo wearily but with gratitude accepted the offer of a bath. It too was waiting for him. Afterward, clad in clean, warm clothing, he took his usual seat before the fire. Ellhach brought a fresh pot of tea and a plate of sweetcakes. Frodo took a bite, but it crumbled chokingly in his mouth. The tea went down far better. He closed his eyes, knowing he would not sleep. A grave weariness came over him, and he did not fight it.

And so he waited.

Early evening came and at last he heard Bilbo's footsteps on the stone floor. "There you are!" Bilbo exclaimed cheerily.

"Hallo, Bilbo," Frodo replied—and found quite suddenly that he was almost angry.

Bilbo made himself comfortable, his rough old feet wiggling in front of the fire. "I have been treated to a delightful meal, Frodo. I wish you had been there."

"I went walking."

"As always."

Frodo raked his gaze across him and away. Bilbo asked gently, "What is it, lad?"

"I was in the kitchen…earlier today. When you were smoking with Gandalf in the garden."

"Were you?"

Controlling himself by main force, Frodo met the other hobbit's eyes. Bilbo regarded him astutely but with great compassion. "So you heard us, did you?"

Frodo only nodded.

"Well, then," Bilbo said wryly. "There's nothing to say, is there?"

A small cry of protest could not be contained. "My dear Frodo," Bilbo sighed, taking his hand affectionately in both of his. "My dear fellow."

Shuddering, Frodo whispered, "When do you mean to do this?"

His voice very gentle, Bilbo replied, "Tonight."

"Oh, Bilbo—!"

"Best to go when it's time, I've always said." He smiled reassuringly. "I should like you to be there with me." He smiled hopefully. "To hold my hand. This tired old hand. Will you do that?"

Frodo bent his head forward. He could barely see.

"Bear up, lad," Bilbo implored huskily. "Bear up for me."

It took him a moment, but at last Frodo was able to speak with a modicum of normality. "As you wish."

"That's my Frodo!" Bilbo released him and stood up. "Look after Gandalf: the silly old thing is going to miss me." He gazed fondly down at Frodo. "Give me an hour to clean up: I want to look my best." Bilbo gave him a huge wink and ruffled his hair.

For some while, Frodo sat alone, listening to the dying crackle of the fire. Then, because it seemed important to Bilbo to put on a good appearance, he went to his room—smiling grimly despite himself as he heard Bilbo singing in his bath—and rummaged about for a proper outfit.

He was waiting in the sitting room when Bilbo came back, wearing his finest shirt and waistcoat, his softest wool trousers. He spread his arms wide for Frodo's approval.

"You do the Shire proud," Frodo said honestly.

"Good. Let us have a last sit in the garden, shall we?"

They went out to the bench overlooking the lawn and the small patch of flowers. Dusk had leeched color from the sky, and an unsubtle cool dampness now promised rain. Across the courtyard there was the usual activity outside Elrond's house. Frodo imagined that some of it must be because of Bilbo, and he interpreted every glance in their direction as certain knowledge of Bilbo's intention.

"Close your eyes, and you might be back in the Shire."

Frodo did not close his eyes, but gave Bilbo a long look instead. The older hobbit sat with his head tilted back, his white hair stirred by the evening breeze. His face was peaceful in a way that Frodo had not seen for a long time—and immensely old. Did it seem strange that Bilbo should remember the Shire when he had lived so long in Rivendell?

As if Frodo had spoken aloud, Bilbo said dreamily, "I never forgot it, you know, even after all those years with the Elves. I suppose home is home no matter how long away you are."

The moment was broken when Ellhach appeared with tea things. "Ah, thank you, Ellhach, my dear friend," Bilbo said, opening his eyes and smiling widely.

Ellhach murmured a reply, but his attention was fixed on Frodo. There was deep sympathy in his face and an unstated question. Frodo nodded his thanks, and then hid his disquiet in the ritual of serving tea as the Elf walked away.

Bilbo took the steaming mug in both hands. "I am forever indebted to you, you know." Frodo opened his mouth, but Bilbo raised a finger. "It was the best thing I ever did, taking you in to become my heir."

"The best for me, to be sure. I doubt that I've ever properly thanked you."

"You have. A hundredfold." Bilbo's face crumpled a little before becoming rueful. "And it was the worst thing, too. For you."

"No, Bil—"

The finger rose imperiously again. Bilbo took a long draught from his mug and then spent a moment savoring it. "We know, you and I—none better—that the Ring would compel you to its will at the end. But I know something you refuse to believe. You would have renounced it. If you'd had the chance. If poor, ruined Gollum hadn't interfered."

Frodo said tiredly, "It doesn't matter anymore."

"It does!" Bilbo said with sudden, startling fierceness. "I hear you at night, when the dreams wake you." He took hold of Frodo's arm in a grip that Frodo would not have thought him still capable of. "You may not believe an old, witless hobbit, but the Lady Galadriel could show you the truth, if you would but ask her. Gandalf told me. Yes. Yes, she could." He gave Frodo a shake. "Promise me, Frodo—promise me!—that you will ask her some day."

Frodo met that earnest gaze, wanting to barter his agreement against Bilbo's remaining just one more day. But in the end, he merely said, "All right, dear Bilbo. As you wish."

Satisfied, Bilbo relaxed his hold. The exertion seemed to have drained him, and he slumped back against his cushion. "What a life I've had," he murmured. "And to end it in Valinor…." He let his eyes fall shut again. Frodo felt a start of fear. A moment passed, while Frodo desperately watched the rise and fall of his chest. Then Bilbo said, "Only you could have given me this immeasurable gift. My dear, dear Frodo."

Darkness closed about them and they sat in companionable stillness, Bilbo remarking on the things he had seen, the people he had known, events in the Shire. Frodo longed for this time to last for ever. He hoped that Bilbo might drift into sleep and forget his purpose. But barely an hour passed before Bilbo roused himself and said, "Come, then: hold an old hobbit's hand as you have agreed to do."

Frodo took his hand immediately, and walked with him into his room. There, Bilbo laid himself down on his bed. His face was white and worn, his eyes clouded as if with pain. Trembling fingers patted the edge of the bed, and Frodo sat in their place, keeping his face impassive with great force of will. He wondered if this terrible deep agony was what Sam had felt as the White Ship sailed from the Grey Havens. Had he understood that Frodo could have done nothing else? As he, however unwillingly, understood that Bilbo, old beyond his time, could do nothing else now?

"So tired," Bilbo said heavily. He raised their joined hands and pressed them against his chest. "So tired." Soft joy touched his face, and he relaxed all at once.

Frodo gasped. The hands holding his had gone slack, and Bilbo's last breath was quietly escaping his lungs. Frodo had not expected this sudden ending. He was not prepared. A small cry broke from him and he clutched Bilbo's hands. "Bilbo," he called out wretchedly. "Bilbo." And then he bent his head and wept.

After a while, calm once more, Frodo released him and went into his own room. From the wall he took down Sting in its scabbard, and from his drawer the mithril shirt, wrapped in silk. The shirt he folded up until it was a tidy square, small enough to fit into Bilbo's capacious jacket pocket. The sword he lay by Bilbo's side in the curve of his elbow.

"May I come in?" Gandalf stood in the doorway.

"It's over," Frodo whispered, not trusting his voice.

"I know."

Fighting a fresh onslaught of grief, Frodo tilted his head toward the bed, and then stepped aside.

"Don't go," Gandalf said. He went to Bilbo's bedside and gazed down at his old friend. "At peace at last, my dear Bilbo," he said, and his words were as loving as a caress. Then he turned to Frodo. "He chose a place. Made his arrangements. I doubt that he spoke of them to you, though he said that he would."

Frodo indicated with a slight movement that Bilbo had said nothing.

"As usual." He dropped to one knee and opened his arms. Blindly, Frodo went into them. Gandalf held him until the storm passed and Frodo was wept dry once more. The wizard handed him a handkerchief to wipe his face. "Let us go with him where he would."

Frodo realized that he had been hearing voices, quiet voices joined together in song. Four Elves carrying a narrow bier halted on the threshold. He beckoned them in. It was Gandalf who lifted the slight form from the small bed. He laid Bilbo on a cushion of tender twigs and flowers. Frodo handed over Sting, and Gandalf restored it to his side. The Elves raised the bier and, their singing uninterrupted, lightly carried their burden out into the night. Frodo and Gandalf walked behind. In the courtyard, others holding lanterns fell into step behind them: Elrond and Celebrían, Ellhach and Cirlad, many who had known Bilbo, others who had known of him. The procession walked across the wide lawn and some ways into the wood. They stopped in a small clearing. A shallow hole had been dug, and at one side stones were heaped. It was lined with new pine needles intermixed with cat's tails and dotted with blue and purple asters. They placed the bier in the hole. An Elf stepped forward and handed Frodo a soft blanket of rushes and ferns. He laid this over Bilbo's body, allowing his fingers to brush an old cheek one last time. Then he stood to the side, and the Elves passed by, laying flowers and leafing twigs, sweet grasses and broad mallorn leaves inside the hole. Their voices faded away as they went, until only Frodo and Gandalf and the original four Elvish bearers remained. Their song continued as they filled in Bilbo's grave, then placed the stones level with the top of the hole, which were then covered with moss and flowers: a hobbit burial.

At last Frodo and Gandalf stood alone. The promised rain had begun to fall, a gentle, steady fall. "May I stay with you?" Gandalf asked.

"Please," Frodo said and sat at the edge of Bilbo's grave. He drew up his hood, tucked his legs close to his chest, and rested his chin on his knees. Gandalf sat beside him, his head bent beneath his own hood. "I know he was tired," Frodo said, falteringly. "And so old. But—"

"You would not have kept him beyond his strength?"

"Of course not. I thought—perhaps I thought he would catch his second wind here."

"He did. But he was very tired, Frodo. More tired than you can imagine."

"But he wanted to see Valinor." Frodo bit his lip; he sounded like a complaining child even to himself.

"And because of you, he did. For which he was very grateful."

Frodo listened to the rain. The sound of it was soothing and welcome. "It happened so fast." He cast Gandalf a raw look. "There was no pain?"

"Only the end of it. Bilbo put off his decision for a long time. Partly because he wanted to stay. Partly because he knew how you would suffer."

Frodo turned his cheek against his knee. "He was there the day my parents died," he said quietly. "The others were down by the river, but he was entertaining the little ones up on the bank." Frodo smiled sadly, reminiscently. "I wasn't so little, but I loved his stories, so I sat away from the others—hidden, I thought, in the shade of a bramble." The day had been hot, a sultry, mid-summer day. He could still smell the leaves and the grass, sweating in the heat. "Contrary to the tales that have been told, there were others on the water that day: that's how they got to them so quickly, before the current could carry them off." He glanced up at Gandalf. "I've heard the cruel things, too: that they were squabbling and overset the boat. That mother pushed father in and he pulled her in after him."

"Frodo—"

"They weren't true, those stories. He'd been ill recently. Perhaps—something happened, something that caused the boat to overturn. But they weren't angry. They rarely were." He could still hear the cries from the river's edge, his parents' names being screamed. The bramble raking his arms and face as he scrabbled out. The bank falling away beneath him as he raced, stumbling and mindless to the pebbled shore. His mother's hair, all undone, water running off it onto the grassy verge as she was laid gently down. His father's face, an expression of mild astonishment in his wide-open eyes.

Frodo twitched at a petal on the grass. He tossed it onto the moss. "Bilbo was there beside me. 'Oh dear,' he said, 'Your parents are drowned.'" He led me to them, encouraged me to touch them, to tell them good-bye." Frodo leaned his head back and let the rain ease the stinging of his eyes. "He sat with me that night; told me stories. The next day my aunts and uncles swooped in and coddled me appallingly." Frodo's voice broke. "I never knew why he took to me, you know. But from then on he visited regularly, and I was invited to visit him at Bag End. When he asked me to move in, it set tongues wagging! But those were the happiest years of my life, living with Bilbo at Bag End."

"A rare thing, what he did. The paternal instinct was never particularly well developed in him," Gandalf observed.

Frodo smiled, just a little. "He wasn't perfect. And he told the most appalling lies sometimes."

"Really?"

"My favorite was the one about an obscure member of the Took family who married an orc."

"No!" Gandalf seemed faintly shocked. "An indelicate subject for a young hobbit, surely?"

The laughter came easier this time. "Put me right off the notion of marriage," Frodo confided.

A bracing breeze swept through the clearing. Frodo shivered.

"He always believed you were something extraordinary. More extraordinary than even he himself."

"It wasn't true. Bilbo did things I could never have done. He was far braver and smarter."

"On the contrary, my dear Frodo: he was entirely right."

Frodo swallowed hard. "Ah, Bilbo," he said wretchedly. An arm curled round him and drew him close. Overcome by grief yet again, Frodo turned his face into the comfort of Gandalf's warmth.

* * *

Somehow Frodo made it through the next days of condolences and sympathy. It was not in the nature of hobbits to mourn overlong, but neither was it in their experience to suffer the extreme hardships and woundings that Frodo had known. He tried to resume his routine, and visited Elrond's library, worked on his book, occasionally dined at Elrond's busy table, and sat at the overlook for hours and hours. In doing so, he discovered how much of his life had already become separate from Bilbo's. At this remove and in retrospect he could now see Bilbo's ravaged features, the extent of his exhaustion, his forced jollity.

But time passed. A week. Two weeks. Three. One day out of each, Frodo whiled the afternoon at Bilbo's grave, lost in thought under the sun or drenched by rain. Gandalf was often about, and Ellhach was never far from hand. Nevertheless, Frodo felt lost, purposeless. He longed to return to the Shire, if only to die there among his own kind. And he began to decline.

A day came when he sat at Bilbo's graveside, his head unprotected beneath a steady rain. Familiar footsteps came through the trees and Gandalf looked down at him. Frodo could see in his eyes the worry and frustration that had undoubtedly shown in his when he had looked at Bilbo that last day. Frodo said, "Perhaps it's time, Gandalf. My time."

The lines and grooves in Gandalf's face deepened. He sat down wearily. "And what would you have me tell Samwise?"

Frodo shook his head. "He won't come."

"You're so sure of that?"

"He has Rosie and the children. The Shire needs him."

Gandalf took a deep breath. "I won't accuse you of being willfully stupid, Frodo, but I am tempted."

Frodo's lips twitched. "You cannot fault my logic," he said composedly. "Even if in the course of time something happened to Rosie, there will always be the children. And by now he must have many grandchildren. I would never expect him to give them up. Nor would I want him to leave them."

"You know Sam well," Gandalf said gravely. "He has never loved anyone more than you. Do you forget that?"

Frodo flinched. "That was before."

"Had he known you would take ship, his choices would have been different."

"I could not have asked that of him!" Frodo said sharply. "It was what he wanted."

"A wife and family?" Gandalf murmured. "Yes. So long as _you_ were part of that family."

Frodo said nothing.

"You did not mean to hurt him by leaving, Frodo. But you did. And the only cure for that hurt will be to recover what he has lost."

"That was a long time ago," Frodo whispered, "for him. He will have changed. He will have aged and changed, as all hobbits do."

"You doubt his feelings? His devotion?"

"I did not deserve it. Not then. Certainly not now, after all—"

"That never mattered to him. Whether he understood or not, he accepted it. And never thought the less of you for it."

"He has had many years to reconsider."

Gandalf muttered something sharply under his breath. Then, with some exasperation, he said, "And if you are wrong? What would you have me tell him?"

"I don't know." Staring emptily into the distance, Frodo sighed, "I just don't know if I can wait, Gandalf."

"I see." Gandalf rose and stood there a moment towering over him. "Promise me one thing."

"Don't ask me, Gandalf, please."

"But I shall. And I expect you to comply—because you also promised Bilbo. Before you follow him, look into the Lady's Mirror. It may not change your decision, but at least you will know the truth. Promise me, Frodo." 

Frodo's features contorted briefly. Then he seemed to sag, as if all resistance had drained out of him. "I promise," he said dully.

Gandalf began to walk away. "I shall hold you to it."

* * *

On a chill spring morning, Celebrían came to Frodo's apartments as he was finishing his tea. He rose at once.

"Will you join me, Lady?" he asked, polite even in his startlement.

"I thank you, no. I am going for a ride. Will you accompany me?"

His first thought was to refuse. But as he stood there, his half-eaten breakfast on his plate, his tea growing cold in its mug, he could think of no satisfactory excuse. "Yes," he replied. "I'll fetch my— Thank you, Ellhach." This, as the Elf handed him his cloak.

They struck off in the direction of the eyrie. The Eaglets had grown to young adulthood and soared above the jagged peaks. Celebrían led him down the opposite side of the mountain, crossing icy torrents and rough stone slides where the horses slowly picked their way. They came to broad meadows, blue and red and yellow with resplendent spring flowers. Untended fruit trees were in bloom, their scent carried on the breeze. They rode for hours, until Frodo's curls were tangled and his cheeks bright red, his eyes bright, too, as he was transported beyond his misery.

At last they stopped at the upper end of a valley of wildflowers, lined on either side by green-carpeted hills. The clouds, seemingly ever present, broke apart and blue sky, clear and clean, stretched above them. The sun herself cast off its grey veil and lit the land for miles around with pure warmth and brilliance. Frodo gave a small, pleased sigh as he walked alongside Rocaran, still trailing behind Celebrían, who also rested her horse. They set them loose to crop the new green grass while they sat on damp stones alongside a gushing stream.

"You are not happy," Celebrían said abruptly. She had collected flowers while they walked. Now she plaited them with nimble fingers.

Frodo said nothing.

"Did you love your kinfolk so much?"

Leaning back, Frodo gazed up at the mountain. There was snow at its peak, stunningly white against a vivid blue background. "More than that." He tried to put into words what he felt. "Besides, I miss my own kind. It may seem silly, I know, but I cannot help but feel alone."

Surveying her work, Celebrían mused, "I have felt like that. I have felt like that among my own kind." She raised her head and regarded him levelly. "But not so often as I once did." Gone from her gaze, he saw, was the hauntedness he had first seen there; gone, too, was the bitterness.

"Did the stone help you?" Frodo asked.

It glittered at her breast. She ran a finger over its surface before picking up another pair of flowers to weave into the rest. "Perhaps." She paused. "Did you give it up too soon?"

Wryly, Frodo shook his head. "It cannot bring Bilbo back. It cannot change anything."

The plait was formed into a crown and thickened with many flowers before Celebrían spoke again. "You mean to leave us. To take the path that your cousin took."

Frodo thought for a moment before answering. "It would be for the best."

"Soon?" she asked, as if they spoke of nothing more momentous than a ride in the afternoon.

"A month," Frodo replied, suddenly decided. "No longer."

"Until then you wait for your friend? The one who also bore the Ring?"

"Yes." A flower spilled from the Elf's lap. Frodo picked it up and handed it to her. "Even Sam would not desire such a journey after so many years. If he ever would have." It must be said: "If he even still lives."

A bee flew near and settled on one of the flowers in Celebrían's lap. She watched it harvest pollen from one bloom and then another, until, heavily laden, it noisily headed homeward. "I shall mourn that day, Frodo Baggins," Celebrían said softly, and held out the wreath. "And I ask that you do not forget that, for all our differences, you are welcome here."

Frodo took the wreath from her fingers. "Thank you, Lady," he whispered. "I will remember."

* * *

The next morning Frodo walked the ridgeline to Galadriel's clearing. He found her waiting for him, her smile gentle and welcoming. She waved him to a low bench beside her loom. When he was seated, she handed him a packet wrapped in silk, secured with a velvet crimson ribbon. "For Samwise," she said.

"Oh, Lady." Frodo held the gift in weak fingers. "Will he come?"

"I believe that he will."

"But you don't know? For certain?"

She lowered herself to the cushion in front of the loom. "It is one path that he may take."

This was not the consolation Frodo sought. He found himself clutching the packet. Gathering himself with an effort, he said, "I have come to ask a question."

"Ask it." She took up the shuttle and pushed it through ranks of fine thread.

"It's about Ellhach. A long time ago, the lady, your daughter, told me that he is a prince. But he chose to serve me and Bilbo. I…I have been wondering on it."

She hesitated for an instant. "You could ask him yourself."

"I do not like to."

A smile broke across her face. It was like sunlight glimmering through wind-stirred branches. "You fear his answer?"

Frodo's shoulders rose and fell. "Maybe."

Murmuring to herself, Galadriel wove two lines before continuing. "He, his wife, and son fought in defense of their land in Mirkwood, a small princedom at the southern edge. In a terrible action, his wife and son were taken and wounded. They were to be killed—would have been killed—but for the destruction of the One."

Frodo held the packet a little closer. "He must know the truth; what I did."

"He knows. And he knows that, but for you, but for your sacrifice, his wife and son would lie in Mandos's Hall."

Meeting her eyes with an effort, Frodo said evenly, "I failed. Without Gollum, they—his wife and son—would surely have died."

Galadriel stopped her shuttle and laid her hands on her skirt. "You are wrong, Frodo Baggins."

"I claimed the Ring, and it me. I saw myself as an emperor," Frodo said bitterly. "I should have ruled with _kindness_ , but the kindness of a Ring-bound hobbit. Men would have known my will, and be made better for it—whether they would or no. Emperor Frodo, in all his wisdom." His voice dwindled to a croak. "It is laughable."

"Frodo." Galadriel's finger curved beneath his chin and slowly forced his head up. "Look at me."

Blinking hard, Frodo reluctantly met her gaze.

"On your journey, there were many paths open to you. When you chose one, another—sometimes many—fell into shadow, never to be taken again. When you stepped into the Sammath Naur, there were two paths—listen to me closely—and regardless of which one you chose, the Ring would have been unmade."

Frodo breathed, "I don't understand. If Gollum hadn't…."

"Even so," she said implacably. "For you were not the only one with choices to be made."

"But I was—" he broke off. "Nothing could have persuaded me to give it up."

Her knowing smile returned. "Nothing but yourself."

Frodo's eyes were filled with anguish. "I can't believe that." He made a small sound of repudiation. "It is impossible to believe."

"Then let me show you."

The words stood between them for a suspended moment, words that Frodo had dreaded to hear for a long time. "All right," he whispered.

Galadriel's smile broadened. "Come with me."

The Mirror rested on a carved pedestal beneath the trees. A rill cut a narrow way through the grass at its base, and farther down, pooled in a shallow pond. Galadriel led him there. She half-filled a ewer from the pond and poured the clear water into the basin. Then she stepped back, as she had done once before, and waited for Frodo to approach.

Trepidation pounded in his veins as he stepped nearer. Something warned him that he should not look, that he should accept her statements as truth. But he also knew that he would not believe with his whole being until he had seen the truth himself.

He bent over the Mirror.

The surface darkened as if storm clouds had gathered overhead. But it was the darkness of smoke, thick with heat-haze, and the orange-red glare of flames spurting in the fiery rivers roiling in the chasms below. All at once he was there as well as here; within himself and standing apart, looking on. There, he was surrounded by stones, smoking stones; the very ground beneath his feet was hot, blisteringly, painfully hot. And once again the Ring was in his palm. He stared at it, struggling against its will, struggling to recall his purpose.

From a great way away, he heard Sam call, "Master!" And he heard himself: "I do not choose…." The Ring slid onto his finger, and he saw with a special vision, as well as felt with a special sense, the binding of two wills. There came a skittering of footsteps, and Sam's furious voice: "No, you don't, you blackguard! Didn't I warn you?" Frodo heard a squeal and a squelching thud.

He saw himself with that queer vision standing tensely, the hair crisping about his head, his eyes blazing amidst burned features. And inside himself, he was once more Emperor Frodo, plotting the correction of Men, the overthrow of Sauron, the re-ordering of the peoples of Middle-earth. Behind him, Sam looked frantically round, crying his name.

And suddenly he saw himself as he was, knew himself as he was: a mere hobbit, the One Ring upon his finger, no emperor, no leader of hobbits much less of Men. He sucked in a deep, sulfurous breath, his lungs protesting the noxiousness and heat. And he pulled at the Ring, to remove it from his hand.

But it would not shift. He pulled harder, and harder again. He began to tug at it frantically. But it would not give, melded to his flesh, refusing to let him go now that it had him here in the place of its making. He sensed its power building once more and understood that he might yet succeed in his task—but only if he acted swiftly.

The edge of the precipice was a few feet away, but the weight of the Ring, never a true account of its size, all at once doubled, trebled, increased itself until Frodo could not even hold up his own hand. It pulled him to the hard stony ground, and he cried out.

"Frodo!" Sam shouted and scrambled toward him.

"Stay!" Frodo ordered him. "Stay, Sam."

"But, Mr. Frodo—"

His breath harsh with the effort of moving, Frodo dragged himself to the very edge of the carved outcropping. The hand bearing the Ring clutched at every stone and protuberance, slowing his progress, sapping his will. Yet he strained on, aware that if he got close enough, his weight, unbalanced, would succeed where his will might not. Sam could see the evidence of his passage, the direction of his intent. "Frodo, what are you doing?" he cried.

"Go back, Sam," Frodo gasped. And then he threw himself into the chasm.

The hand wearing the Ring shot out and desperately grasped at the rockface. The heat and fumes rising up from the molten rock below were suffocatingly unbearable. His fingers, even with the added power of the Ring, could not support him. Frodo gave himself a fierce wrench and the hand at last broke free.

"Frodo, no! Frodo!"

He fell, while Sam threw himself half out over the edge, shrieking his name.

In the Mirror, with that special vision, Frodo saw himself plummet into the heart of Orodruin. The river boiled up to meet him, then boiled up even higher as it consumed him and the Ring whole. The walls trembled and the mountain itself shuddered, convulsing as if preparing to expel the thing it had swallowed. Still, Sam leaned forward precariously, blind now from the poisonous air and heat.

"You did it, Mr. Frodo." A wretched smile twisted his mouth. "You did it." He crouched there while the mountain roared and spasmed, making no attempt to save himself as the walls cracked and exploded apart, and the corrosive blood of Orodruin surged upward. He was still there when the mountain convulsed once more and collapsed down upon him.

"Sam," Frodo hissed.

"Do not disturb the surface," Galadriel reminded him.

He swallowed his tears, watching as the Mirror showed the destruction of Mordor, the fall of Barad-dûr, the ruin of the Black Gate, orcs mindless and mad slaying each other or felled by the wrath of the mountain. Eventually the smoke parted, and through an opening, the Eagles came and circled. They searched amidst exploding fireballs and eruptions of flame. And at last, seeing nothing but ruin, they flew away again.

There was no one to be saved.

The water cleared, the smooth surface reflecting only shimmering branches and patches of clear sky. Frodo stepped back, trembling.

"That is not all." The voice was Gandalf's. He laid a hand upon Frodo's shoulder and guided him to the bench. Sitting on his heels before him, he took Frodo's hands in his. "If you could bear it, it is there to be seen. Without you, without Sam, things would have been very different for the Shire. Merry and Pippin would have returned home in low spirits, embittered by your deaths, and upon reaching the Shire, found it damaged almost beyond repair. Hot with revenge, they would have made your Battle of Bywater a very bloody battle indeed. The Ruffians would have been slaughtered; no quarter, no mercy given.

Saruman and Wormtongue would have died, but slain by outraged hobbits, at Merry and Pippin's command. They would have returned to their homes, and Hobbiton would have fallen into neglect. Rose Cotton would have wed another. Without the gift of Galadriel and Sam's tireless efforts, the Shire would never have recovered its former glory. 

Upon hearing of your death, Bilbo's heart would have broken; he would never have finished the Red Book, and it would have been abandoned altogether. Aragorn's rule would have begun with great sadness and many long days of mourning. 

And I—" Gandalf's face was marked with deep lines "—I would have sailed with Elrond and Galadriel, having succeeded in my purpose, but grieving for my success." He cocked his head to one side, his gaze searching Frodo's stricken face. "That is what would have happened, had you been forced onto the other path. Do you see now?"

Frodo cast his eyes downward. He managed a slight nod, too deeply moved for speech.

"My dear Frodo. Few ever know their full importance. Fewer still will ever be as important as you." He touched Frodo's cheek. "Bilbo knew the truth without looking in the Mirror. Perhaps now you can believe it, too."

Strange dreams invaded Frodo's sleep that night. The grief of seeing Sam die in the Sammath Naur lingered, as real as if it had happened. Superstitiously he feared that Sam had indeed died, but in the Shire, and somehow that knowledge had been communicated to him. Chilled by the thought, he curled like a rabbit in its burrow, seeking a warmth that eluded him. He dreamt that he was on the White Ship, its sails filling with the evening land breeze, bearing him away from the Grey Havens. Sam stood on the shore, watching, his features distorted with anguish. He said something, but Frodo could not hear him, even though the air should have borne his words over the water. The sense of loss grew heavier, and somehow Frodo was in Bilbo's grave, sightless beneath rushes and cat tails, stones and moss. It was where he belonged: for it was the choice that he had more than half made; the choice that awaited him. If Sam were dead….

As Frodo shivered in his disturbed sleep, lights appeared in the deep darkness without, lights that were colored and glittering, stirring like dust motes in a shaft of sunlight, but in unison as if somehow gifted with a common purpose. They seemed almost familiar, but he could not place them, no more understanding their pattern than the force that caused them to shift as one. They came in through the window, swirled in a tall column like flower petals caught in a twisting breeze, and slowly moved nearer. With the creature's approach—for somehow he knew that it was a _being_ , no matter how amorphous and insubstantial—the cold departed and a gentle warmth filled the room, filled _him_. His trembling ceased; the turmoil of his thoughts subsided. The thing seemed to surround him, perhaps even to pass through him. He heard a voice, then many—his mother's voice, his father's voice, Bilbo's voice, Gandalf's voice, Sam's voice—speaking to him of strength and life and love and why he must not yet accept the gift of death.

Something touched his brow, and he was utterly at peace. And once more alone.

* * *

"Varda," Gandalf said.

"It seemed so real."

They sat together on the bench overlooking what Frodo had come to think of as Bilbo's garden. The morning sun, freed of mist, saturated them with light and new heat. It reflected off the stone walls, making their little alcove cozy and pleasant.

"I believe it was real, Frodo. The Great Lady has always been fond of you."

Frodo's brows rose. "Me, Gandalf?"

"Perhaps I was never clear on this particular point: It is because of her that you are here. I could have pleaded your case until all the worlds ended, but without her agreement and support, my begging would have come to nothing."

This thought took a moment to fully penetrate. His gaze dark, Frodo said, "And last night?"

"You must have been very weak indeed."

"I dreamt I was in Bilbo's grave."

"Ah." The lines in Gandalf's face seemed to deepen. He regarded Frodo closely. "Then, I fear, but for the Lady's grace I should not be sitting with you now." A little anxiously, he added, "I thought it would help you to look into the mirror."

Frodo shifted uncomfortably. A soft tread heralded Ellhach's approach; the Elf was bringing tea and cakes. He smiled at Frodo's thanks and as quietly departed. "I can't say, Gandalf. I felt better, truly, for knowing that things might have gone differently. That I might have completed the task. That the Ring would have failed. But seeing Sam die like that…because of me…. I know it might have happened at any time to either of us; _but it hadn't_. We had made it home safe. But it felt so real. So dreadfully real."

Gandalf took in a long breath and slowly released it. "Ah," he said again. "Perhaps I understand a little more clearly now." A hand raised in response to Frodo's wordless query, Gandalf explained, "Nothing so desperate as I imagined." He leaned back, looking very pleased. "I cannot interpret Varda's reasons for helping you last night. It is a very rare and unusual gift that she gave you; what she did for you. But as a result—" he turned his head and looked long into Frodo's eyes, "— I believe you are fully healed at last." His gaze softened. "Not even evil dreams can hurt you now. With the light of morning you will know that they were only phantoms, the remnants of painful thoughts. She has given you her blessing."

Wrapping his arms about his chest, Frodo said, "I have never deserved it, Gandalf." When the wizard would have spoken, Frodo shook his head, his expression very serious. "I knew what I was doing when I agreed to your quest. And my reasons were never so noble as others believed." He finished miserably, "You knew that, too."

Gandalf patted his knee. "I knew that you would keep the Ring with you, if you could. And I knew that you would destroy it. If you could."

"That was greater faith than I had in myself." Frodo's mouth drew into a thin line. "I never thought beyond simply trying. I couldn't."

"Because thinking would have reminded you of what waited at the end." Gandalf cupped his cheek, and then reached for the teapot. When both cups were steaming, he handed one, dwarfed by his big hand, to Frodo and took the other. "But I hope now that you will think of the future, rather than the past. Will you do that, Frodo?"

Frodo met the wizard's kindly gaze, but did not answer.

* * *

The ground covering Bilbo's grave gave little indication of the special creature that had been placed beneath it. In just over a month, it had grown smooth as if it had never been disturbed, not even the stones beneath the moss and flowers showing through. Nevertheless, Frodo spent a few hours there at least once a week. He missed Bilbo terribly, but the sharp edge of his grief was growing dull. The tears fell less frequently, and his sense of abandonment quietly ebbed.

Yet in the back of his mind—while he wrote in his book, reaped the harvest of Elrond's wonderful library, rambled farther and farther about his new world, or improved his acquaintances among the Elves—a clock ticked. By his reckoning, nearly sixty years had passed in the Shire. Sam would be a very old hobbit by now, bent with age and suffering the accumulation of his years. In striking contrast, Frodo, in Valinor scarcely five months, had regained the vigor and capacity for life that he had known before Bilbo's fateful birthday. What would life in Valinor offer to an old hobbit? If Sam came—if he came—would his aches and pains heal? Would his tired eyes see clearly once more? Would he stand tall despite his years and walk rather than hobble? Would he come seeking Frodo only to say good-bye?

And what—if Sam did not come—should Frodo do?

There was laughter here, courtesy, ceremony, respect, and love. The Elves, for all their measured words and seeming remoteness, were a joyous people. Their music, sometimes little more than a low, melodic hum, was ever present and ever beautiful. They loved poetry and learning; they revered nature in all its facets; they were kind and generous. But they were not hobbits.

Without Bilbo, Frodo felt an outsider, no matter how welcomed or favored. He missed Bilbo's voice, his habits, his very scent—all of which reminded him of home. Perhaps, when he knew with certainty that Sam would not journey west, when the very possibility no longer existed, he would decide to live a while longer with the Elves. And perhaps he would not.

The count of days continued, and with each encroachment of darkness, Frodo's hopes, never robust, quietly diminished. He had never really expected Sam to leave Middle-earth, despite his love of the Elves and of Gandalf and of Frodo himself. Yet knowing that if he would come, it must be soon, was an exquisite torture, unlike any Frodo had experienced before. He spent an entire night at the overlook, wondering if at any moment a ship might appear in the hazy sky—wondering if he would even know it for what it was, if it did. Logically, without the gift of Elf eyes, he knew he could not possibly see it. Yet it gave him something to do until just before dawn, when the clouds flowed in off the sea, and a steady, icy rain began to fall. Soaked through to the skin despite his thick Elvish cloak, he came back down the mountain, disheartened and forlorn. Ellhach greeted him with his usual courtesy and a probing, concerned look, and then directed him to the bathroom, where a blazing fire, scalding hot water, and warm towels awaited him.

After that, he was rarely left on his own, unless he specifically requested it. Elrond himself visited with the pretext of a new book or discussion of an old one; Ellhach assisted with his writing, encouraging and helpful; Celebrían asked his company for long walks and rides; and Gandalf often dropped in when least expected to spend an hour or three. They were excellent company, all of them, and Frodo loved them for their caring.

Yet he could not bring himself to voice his fears, nor even to ask whether news of a ship might precede the vessel itself. To be told no would give him hope; to be told yes, curiously, would take it away. But he could not help his sudden distraction if there were a new visitor or any slight commotion. Each time he was disappointed; and as the disappointments mounted, Frodo began to accept that there would be no more hobbits in Valinor.

* * *

Into an ash-grey, heavy mist Frodo walked out before dawn. Behind him, a note, written in his fine hand explaining that he would be away for a few days, stood propped on the kitchen table. He had made it clear that he meant only to tramp about the woods and the fields in solitude. The pack he carried was heavy with food and drink, spare clothing, the book he wrote in, his inkhorn and spare quills, and a couple of histories that Elrond had recommended. While he had been honest about his desire to wander and be alone, he had not felt it dishonest leaving out his intention to consider the future.

An hour earlier a dream of Bilbo had awakened him. In it, Bilbo, energetic and volatile as he had first known him, had recounted a tale of Valinor. The Elves, he had said, had been called by Manwë to leave Middle-earth and take up their rightful residence in Aman, but many had been reluctant to comply. "Imagine," his dream Bilbo had said, his eyes wide and disbelieving, "not wanting to live in the land of the Valar." Then he had laughed in that charming, belly-wobbling way that had always brought a smile to Frodo's face. "But then Elves can be a fractious, difficult lot, you know."

Frodo struck off into the trees, knowing better than to attempt the open mountainside in the deep, mist-laden darkness. Hood up, cloak tight against the chill, he passed as silently as a moth. His innate sense of direction was sound, and he allowed it to guide him along the ridgeline, a path he had walked before. The damp ground sloped slowly downward. The mist thickened into a soft rain; soon drops were beading on his lashes and clinging to exposed fingers. His breath took form in the air before him, ghostly and soon dissipated in the cold.

By the time a pale light inhabited the sky, Frodo was many miles away, a slight figure wending its way through trees and brambles, cautious of the sight of others. He had long left the ridgeline behind and now his oppression was lifting. As he strode along, he began to sing, a sound so low it might be confused for the groan of branches weighted by dew. He thought of Bilbo and the Shire and Sam. He thought of Gandalf and Elrond and Galadriel. His brow furrowed as he thought of the vision in Galadriel's Mirror, and then his heart eased as recalled Sam in the palantír: comfortably dressed, clearly healthy, good-natured, and happy. And he thought of his dream: "Imagine not wanting to live in the land of the Valar."

He stopped alongside a stream, choosing to hunker beneath a dripping willow rather than venture into open space. There he ate a bit of his bread and cheese, and drank his waterskin empty. After a brief rest, he refilled the skin, tidied his pack, and continued on his way, keeping to cover and entering clearings only after a quick survey which assured him that he was alone and unobserved.

In this way he made great progress, though eventually he was forced to leave the treeline and rely on stretches of brambles abutted with stunted oaks and maples to provide concealment. The rain grew less persistent the lower he traveled, until, just before dusk, the clouds broke apart and hastened, with shredded tails, into the east. For a short while the sun shone, warming Frodo's sweat- and mist-damp skin, and drying his cloak with unexpected alacrity.

He found an abandoned den and there ate his dinner and read, straining his eyes, by a small fire. With the departure of cloud cover, the air freshened, and Frodo, once more aware of the chill, was grateful for the close confines of his temporary abode. Exhausted by his long walk, he slept deeply and in surprising comfort—almost as if he were in his featherbed in Bag End. The dawn light roused him, and he greeted it with a lazy, sleepy smile. Refreshed and fed, he set off once more, his step inexplicably lighter, his eyes brighter, his head clearer.

That day he was slowed by the need to avoid others. Often voices carried to him on the breeze, and he quickly took to ground until the speakers had passed by. With his hobbit stealth, learned in his earliest years, it was easy skirting small settlements and homesteads, and he took a curious pleasure in evading their tenants. Normally a sociable individual, Frodo was for once enjoying his anonymity, while taking in all that others were doing as the day progressed.

Mid-afternoon, he settled near a large stream in the shadow of a stand of young poplars and a thicket of hazel. The sun was still shining, a cheery sight following the previous day's greyness, and Frodo was determined to take advantage of its light and warmth. Rather than think, which he had been doing for nearly two days, he took up one of Elrond's books, and soon lost himself in another's thoughts. After a couple of hours, he was nodding over the book. He ate bread and cheese, and then finally opened the cloth in which were wrapped several sweetcakes, and finished them with greedy bites. In the stream he washed up, rinsing his hands and wrists under the brisk water. Later, he curled up under the protection of the thicket and, snug in his cloak, drowsily watched the sky darken by degrees, stirred—but only a little—by the appearance of an Eagle circling high above. He fancied that he could hear its distinctive screeing cry even from where he lay, and as he drifted to sleep, he remembered the smell and feel of Eagle feathers beneath his cheek.

The next morning, Frodo made his way farther into the valley. He followed a narrow stream, never straying far from the heavy growth along its banks. The urgency of flight had faded over the past days, replaced by the intrigue of new sights and sounds. Frodo's was now a dawdling wander. He stopped often and as often as not, napped, more than content in his solitude. As he sat under a low roof of leaves, lulled by birdsong, the buzz of insects, and the questing breeze, he might have been back in the Shire. The sense of apartness melted away; joy, poking its head through the rubble of his grief like new growth amid ashes, began to take life within him once more.

That afternoon, as he paddled in the icy shallows along the stream, he became aware of another's presence. A stag stood several yards away, upwind of him. Silently, Frodo backed into the reeds along the bank, unseen. He watched the great creature for some minutes, marveling at its effortless grace, the constant flickerings of its ears, the stillness of its gaze. And as he watched, it opened its mouth as if startled, and then fell over. It lay in the stream, its big eyes staring, and from its chest protruded an arrow.

Holding his breath, Frodo watched a small hunting party emerge from the reeds and low-hanging branches not far from where he crouched, hidden. They sang softly as they hefted the stag out of the water and onto the opposite bank. It was not a song of triumph, but one of honor and gratitude. The animal was bound to a large pole and raised onto their shoulders. Still singing, the Elves carried the stag away.

Not daring to stir, even after the birds resumed their chirping and began flitting in and out of the reeds, Frodo watched as a thin streak of blood flowed past him. The faint screeing of an Eagle in the upper reaches of the sky brought his head up, but he caught only glimpses of the great form through the leaves. The air dried his cheeks as he stared blindly upward. 

It was, he decided, time to go home.

* * *

He conducted the return journey with much the same stealth but a steadier pace. In the evenings, he sat huddled in his cloak, gazing distantly into the twilight. The stag's death—and thoughts of Bilbo—stayed with him for the first day, but as dew changed to mist and mist to rain, he felt that unfathomed appreciation of life, so much a part of his essential hobbitness, come to the fore once more. Before leaving Elrond's house, he had considered fixing a date for his last breath. Another month, he had thought, would signal the end of his hopes of Sam's arrival. The last day of that month would have marked the end of his life.

But now something of his usual perspective had been restored; despair was not his natural state. He would always miss Bilbo, and he would mourn the loss of Sam in Valinor, if he never came. But Frodo's journey had allowed him to see that he was not yet ready to give up life altogether. Painful and sometimes sad though it might be, there was much about _being_ that brought pleasure and happiness.

And he hadn't finished his book yet.

Six days after he had crept away, Frodo, sheltered by the middle darkness of the sixth evening, walked into the candle-lit brightness of his study. He was road-weary and yearned for a good soak. Leaving the pack on the floor beside his writing desk, he followed the scent of recently baked bread, the clamorings of his stomach being more voluble than the itching of his skin. Voices, too low for individual words to be discerned, came from the kitchen. Smiling to himself, Frodo passed the sitting room, his gaze diverted by the flames leaping in the hearth and the candles burning on the table between the two chairs. Puzzling to himself how anyone might have guessed that he would be back this evening, Frodo was a good three steps past the doorway before his brain registered what his eyes had seen: feet—hairy feet—resting on the footrest in front of the fire.

His throat closed on a gasp. He turned back. In the opening, he stopped, his heart racing, his knuckles white where his fingers grasped the frame of the doorway. And then he slowly walked round, tilting his head to one side, anticipating the face of the owner of those feet.

It belonged, of course, to Sam.

* * *

Frodo silently advanced into the room. Unquestionably it was Sam, though, of course, he was older, with tendrils of silver in his hair and a few—a very few, Frodo noted with surprise—lines on his face. He sat slumped in his traveling clothes, his chin digging into his chest, his arms limp at his sides. 

Frodo's mouth worked as he circled round, scrutinizing every aspect of his friend, who was only a little changed from the last time he had seen him, in the palantír. Sam was deeply asleep, snoring faintly—and to Frodo familiarly—with each inhalation. His features were drawn and strain drew his brows down over his eyes. But Frodo smiled widely, even through a sudden rush of tears, as he sat down on the remaining space on the footrest next to Sam's sprawled legs.

"Back at last, are you?" Gandalf spoke softly from the doorway.

Blinking hard, Frodo looked up and whispered, "How long has—?"

"Since yesterday evening."

"Is he all right?"

"Merely overtired." Gandalf bent his head. "He resolved to wait for you. Fell asleep only about an hour ago."

"Oh, my dear Sam. I wish I'd known—"

"You were looked for, you know. Even the Eagles, normally so sharp-eyed could not report your whereabouts."

"I—" He was prepared to admit his guilt but was spared when another, well-loved voice exclaimed, "Frodo."

Sam was staring at him with mingled awe and amazement. "You are here."

"Hullo, Sam." Frodo's voice broke.

"You've been on a ramble," Sam said, with a tremulous grin. "You've leaves in your hair."

Frodo nodded, his voice failing him completely. All at once, they were in each other's arms. "Oh, Sam," Frodo breathed. "I'm so happy to see you."

Swiping at his cheeks with a shaking hand, Sam said, "And, me. Oh, and me."

Somewhat clumsily Frodo sat back on his perch. He vaguely noticed that Gandalf had left them alone. "How was your journey?"

Sam nodded and shook his head at the same time. "I couldn't describe it if I tried. Thought I'd seen every strange thing there was to see, but that—"

Frodo laughed. "Perhaps now we have." He gripped his hands. "I'm sorry I wasn't here to greet you."

"That's all right, Mr. Frodo." Sam snuffled and reached for his handkerchief. "I was well looked after on the ship. And Gandalf put my mind to rest as soon as we docked."

"You haven't even taken off your jacket," Frodo chided gently. "You must be exhausted."

"I am a bit tired," Sam confessed. "But I wanted to wait for you. And here you are. Here you are."

Frodo laughed again. "Are you hungry? I can fetch some things from the kitchen."

"Now, see—" Sam began, but paused at the sound of footsteps. "Ellhach," he greeted, as the Elf set a tray of sandwiches and tea things on the table between the chairs. "Bless you."

"Thank you, Ellhach," Frodo said with real gratitude.

The Elf inclined his head. "Welcome back, Frodo," he said gravely, but with a smile in his eyes. He turned and walked out of the room.

"Sit back, Sam," Frodo commanded as soon as they were alone. "Allow me."

With great contentment, Sam watched as Frodo put the finishing touches on the still warm bread, soft cheese, and meat. Frodo handed a plate to him, and then occupied himself with the tea.

"It was his lady—Ellhach's lady—who kept an eye on me."

"Was it?" Frodo shot him a quick, surprised look.

"And it was their son Lhachir who delivered Aragorn's letter to me."

As he set a mug at Sam's elbow, Frodo raised a brow. "Aragorn's letter? Take pity on me, Sam: I don't follow."

Sam had taken a bite of his sandwich and chewed doggedly while Frodo waited. "My Rosie died on Mid-Summer's day. When my mind cleared, I—"

"Oh, Sam!"

"It's all right, Mr. Frodo," Sam spoke comfortingly and with only a trace of sorrow. "We had good years, Rosie and me. And many of them. But I wrote to Aragorn—he and Arwen were right fond of her—to tell them of her passing. He sent Lhachir back with a letter. It was a kingly letter, Mr. Frodo. Made me weep, it did." Even now Sam's eyes glistened at the memory. "But he also said that a ship was waiting for me, if the time had come for me to go over sea."

"I am in his debt," Frodo murmured.

"Lhachir took my reply with him. Rode into the Shire, and insisted on waiting on his horse whilst I read. Wouldn't take a bite to eat nor a sip of water before riding straight back. He's a good lad—one of the youngest Elves I've ever met, you know." Sam took another bite, sighing softly.

"You're going to fall asleep in your tea," Frodo said. "We're both tired. My questions will have to wait until morning."

"As will mine—and do not doubt that I have many more than you!" Sam countered with a wobbly grin. He finished his sandwich, though it was obvious that he was drifting on the lee shore of sleep all the while, startling himself into full wakefulness every few seconds, and immediately assuring himself with a searching gaze that Frodo was still there.

Frodo managed little better, the hours on the road weighing on him. When they had drained their mugs and were sitting there simply staring affectionately at each other, Ellhach came in. "I have prepared Samwise's room," he said. "Will you postpone your bath until the morning, Frodo?"

"I dare not." Frodo yawned behind his hand. "If there's no warm water, cold will do—and nothing better than I deserve."

"There is warm water," Ellhach said with a slow smile. "And nothing less than you deserve."

When tears threatened yet again, Frodo knew he must soon find his bed or disgrace himself altogether. "Thank you, Ellhach, for everything." He took to his feet, found his balance, and bent over to pull Sam up beside him. They fell into each other's arms yet again, and amidst a fresh prickling of tears, they ambled arm in arm down the hall, leaning on each other as much for support as for continued closeness. At Sam's door, Frodo turned and kissed his forehead. "Sleep well, Sam."

Sam held him tightly. "I'm so glad you waited for me," he whispered softly, so low that no one else could hear. And then he let him go and quickly stepped into the room that had been Bilbo's. Frodo stood there a moment longer, then pulled the door closed.

Hot water awaited him in the great vessel. Frodo stripped bare and climbed in. He breathed in a quick gasp, his chilled skin shocked by the sudden change in temperature. Letting out a little moan, he sank all the way to the bottom. He could feel the water loosen the dirt from his scalp. Delicious warmth spread through him, and when he surfaced he sat comfortably for a moment, his entire being tingling. And then he set to work. The water steadily darkened and thickened. Leaves and bits of grass and small twigs rode the ripples around his chest; the ladybirds—there were two—he carefully rescued and sent on their way with a puff of air. As he stood, Ellhach came in and fetched the large jug standing beside the hearth. Frodo bent his head while the Elf poured clean water down upon him. Dripping, he stepped over the edge onto the flagged stones. A large, heated towel was placed in his hands and he began to dry himself, rubbing the miles away along with the dirt and loneliness. He settled beside the hearth and worked the wetness out of his hair, while Ellhach saw to the emptying of the basin and the mopping up of the floor. Frodo fell into a kind of waking sleep, the corners of his mouth twitching upward again and again.

"Come, Frodo," Ellhach said. "You will pitch into the fire."

Frodo gave no argument, and slowly took to his feet. Steadying himself with some effort, he staggered down the corridor. It was impossible not to stop outside Sam's door. Impossible not to push it open a few inches. Light from the hall sconces flickered gently across the bed and its recumbent occupant. Sam's eyes opened and he gazed sleepily up into Frodo's face, a sweet smile erasing the lines formed by exhaustion and worry. Suffused with an almost painful extremity of affection, Frodo stepped into the room. He bent over Sam and kissed him again. "Sleep now," he said huskily. Sam caught his hand before he could walk away, and held it for a moment. Frodo turned his cheek against the back of Sam's fingers, and then tucked Sam's hand beneath the covers.

* * *

A feathery pink dawn came in upon the hem of an azure sky. At the first lightening, Frodo woke out of a very deep slumber, remembered the events of the preceding day, and was dressed in minutes. He took a few steps down the corridor and listened outside Sam's door just long enough to hear—or imagine that he could hear—the rhythmic susurrus of his breathing, and then went on into the kitchen.

"Ellhach!" he objected, upon finding the Elf preparing breakfast. "You must go home at once!"

"Must I?" Ellhach asked with mild bewilderment, as he placed an earthen dish filled with risen dough into the stone oven.

"Your family is here," Frodo argued. "I would not have you neglect them on my—on our—account."

"It is because of you that they live," the Elf replied absently, taking care not to sear his fingers as he closed the opening.

"You know the whole of it," Frodo said. "How can you—?" He bit his lip. And then his mouth twisted into a resigned smile. "Never mind. Surely you must long to be with them?"

Ellhach regarded Frodo with a calm expression, friendly amusement and respect in his gaze. He was tall, as were all Elves—especially in comparison to hobbits—and leanly muscular, his hair long and dark, his eyes deeply blue and very grave: a warrior, Frodo suddenly comprehended. A warrior who had chosen to serve a creature barely half his size, and not out of duty but gratitude and pride. Frodo inclined his head in a bow. "Celebrían told me once that you are a prince. Galadriel said so, too."

To his great surprise, Ellhach laughed, his eyes glimmering with mirth. "It is true. But my father had many sons, and I was neither the eldest nor the youngest, simply one prince among many." He cocked his head to one side. "Do you think my standing compromised by taking on your care?"

Frodo grimaced: it was not so much what he thought but what he feared.

"Let me assure you, it is not. There are others who envy the honor. You are a hero among my kind, Frodo Baggins. Long after you are gone, your story still will be sung. And I will be among those who sing it."

An array of emotions flowed across Frodo's features: consternation, disbelief, grim amusement, and reluctant acceptance. He said, finally, "You won't neglect them, will you? Not for me."

"I give you my word."

Frodo went out into the dewy morning with a mug of peach nectar in one hand and an apple in the other. His eyes widened with pleasure as he spied Gandalf sitting on Bilbo's bench. And then he stopped, tilted back his head, and sniffed the air. "Southern Star!"

Gandalf lifted the pipe from the arm of his chair. "I'm sure Sam brought a packet for you, as well. But you may have some of mine for now. Fetch your pipe. Go on. Account it repayment for giving the last of your Longbottom to Bilbo."

Frodo stood as if transfixed. He said slowly, "I'll fetch my pipe." Wondering if there was anything that Gandalf did not know, he put the apple on the table and hurried into his room. With the pipe fitted in his palm, he hesitated outside Sam's door. The sound of slow, steady, somehow comforting snores were still barely audible. Pleased, Frodo went out into the garden, already imagining the taste of pipe-weed in his mouth.

Gandalf wordlessly passed over his pouch. Frodo held it a moment. "This isn't all of it, surely?"

"No, Frodo. I have a very large packet." He bent nearer confidingly. "And better than that, the seeds to start crops of our own."

Frodo's eyes widened with real pleasure. "Dear Sam!" He occupied himself for a couple of minutes tamping the herb into the bowl of his pipe, before borrowing Gandalf's striker to get a flame. When the pipe was drawing amidst a swirl of smoke, he slumped back against the bench. "Oh, lovely," he sighed with great pleasure.

"Indeed."

Recalling himself, Frodo sat up. "Thank you for looking after Sam, Gandalf," he said sincerely. "I should have been here."

"Sam will be all right. I explained something of what's happened since you arrived. I hope you don't mind."

Frodo raised his brows, eyes bent sidelong at him as he sucked on the stem of his pipe. "What, in particular?"

"Oh, about the Ring's last attempt to take you—how dramatic that sounds but no more than the truth—and, of course, Bilbo."

Wisps of smoke circling his head, Frodo said, "He loved Bilbo as much as his own father. Was he very disappointed?"

"Of course. It was not happy news. On top of your absence, he was rather shaken."

"I'll never forgive myself for that," Frodo muttered penitently. "But how brave of Sam! I had you and Elrond and Galadriel and Bilbo for company during that strange voyage; but Sam was all alone." At Gandalf's disagreeing _hmph_ , Frodo said, "You know what I mean."

"I do. A ship full of Elves, however, is scarcely alone."

"What did you tell him?" Frodo asked.

"That you were off rambling in Bilbo's footsteps, with not much more than a word of good-bye. No mention of where you'd gone, nor of when you'd be back." Gandalf set down his pipe, the brightening sky reflecting on his eyes. "That seemed to cheer him, oddly enough." He turned and regarded Frodo closely. "And where did you get off to, then?"

"Not far."

"The coast?"

"Oh, no. Down the mountain, to the valley. I skulked alongside a large stream, on the north side, mostly, where I wouldn't be so conspicuous."

"Ah. Elrond thought you might climb higher. You've not seen Kortírion yet. And I thought you would travel to the Sea. We were both wrong."

They sat smoking for a few minutes. It had been months since Frodo had emptied his pouch and he found now that his throat was not quite up to the exercise.

"Did you accomplish what you set out to do?" Gandalf asked.

"Yes," said Frodo thoughtfully. "In truth, I just wanted to think, Gandalf. To try to reckon my place in all of this." 

"And have you? Reckoned your place in all of this?"

"As well as I can, yes." With a glance back at the house behind them, he murmured, "But I do wish that I'd managed to get it done a week ago. How I would have liked to meet Sam at the haven. How I wish I had been there."

Gandalf tamped the ashes from the bowl of his pipe into a small earthen vessel that he had apparently secured for that purpose. "You will make it up to him, I'm sure."

With sudden urgency, Frodo said, "Will there be time, Gandalf?"

The wizard's expression gentled. "More than you might imagine, Frodo." He slid his pipe into his sleeve and stood up. To Frodo he seemed immensely tall and powerful, his face awfully shaded with the fiery hues of dawn. But when he glanced down, there was nothing but affection and warmth in his demeanor. "By the way, Elrond has arranged a feast in honor of our new arrival. You may anticipate a busy day, I fear."

"Sam will like that—at least I think he will."

"You will find that he has not changed all that much, Frodo," Gandalf assured him. He murmured a good-bye and strode away across the courtyard.

Gradually the triumphal colors lighting the clouds quieted to the grey of a dove's breast, and the sky softened to a gentle blue. Frodo emptied his pipe and went inside, his senses filled with the sweet moistness of lingering dew, the tentative warblings of newly awakened birds, and the lush scent of freshly baked bread. Outside the kitchen, he paused. The door to Sam's room was still closed. He resisted the desire to open it and peek inside. Despite his conversation with Gandalf, there was a sliver of doubt itching inside him. Had he really seen Sam? Was it possible that he was really here?

"Will you eat?" Ellhach asked.

Frodo's mouth was watering, but he shook his head no.

"Shall I wake him?"

"No!" Seeing the twinkle in the Elf's eyes, he conceded a grin. "Let him sleep. Is there any tea?"

Just as the mug was filled, Frodo heard the door swing out on its hinges. He moved his hand away lest his trembling should overturn the mug. There came the muted slap of feet padding down the corridor to the bathroom: Sam, of course, would see to his own chamber pot. A moment passed, and there he was, shyly peering into the kitchen, his hair sleep-tousled and his eyes hazy. At sight of Frodo, he let out a long breath, as if he had been holding it—and Frodo realized that Sam must be as out of countenance as he was.

Frodo rose at once and clapped a hand on Sam's shoulder. "Come and sit," he said. "You must be famished."

Sam's smile was a wry admission: "I could eat a bite or two."

Within minutes, the table was spread with plates and bowls filled with eggs cooked in a variety of ways, cheese, a selection of fruits, boiled and sweetened grain, bread, sweetcakes, and honey. Ellhach departed, saying that he would return at mid-day, and both hobbits mumbled their thanks.

Replete at last, their conversation to that point restricted to the weather, the food, and the quality of their respective night's rest, they took up mugs of tea and went into the sitting room. Sam placed his on the table between the chairs and hurried off to the bedroom. He returned carrying a small woven hamper.

"What have you there?" Frodo asked.

"Presents from Middle-earth," Sam replied importantly. "This basket rarely left my sight throughout the whole journey."

Frodo sat forward. He made a production of sniffing loudly. "Pipe-weed, I think."

Sam chuckled. "Of course. More in my pack, as well. But here's a small amount to get you started, along with a pipe carved by my Frodo-lad, with his very own hands."

The pipe was long and slender, and mostly plain. But the bowl was engraved with tiny flowers all around the upper lip. "My goodness, Sam," Frodo said with delight, "this is magnificent."

"He has his grand-da's hands, in the garden and with a whittling knife."

"I wish I could thank him, Sam."

"And here's your pipe-weed. Enough to get you going on." Frodo took the oil-cloth-wrapped packet and painstakingly peeled its leaves apart. The scent of fresh herb lifted into the air. He closed his eyes and breathed it in, recapturing something of the Shire as he did so.

"Don't worry, Mr. Frodo," Sam said a little urgently. "There will be more. I've brought seeds, good seeds, and within a year or two we'll have our own harvests. You'll see."

"So Gandalf told me," Frodo said complacently. "He gave me a pinch earlier this morning. It was wonderful, Sam."

"Bless him. I wouldn't've had you wait a minute longer because I was still abed." He rummaged in the hamper a moment. "Ah, here they are. All of these things are for you, gifts from Elanor and some of the grandchildren—just little things, as you'll see—but I know you'll want these right away." Still half-bent, he held out two envelopes. "One is from Merry (and Pippin, though he let Merry do the writing; lazy as ever, is Mr. Pippin); the other from dear Aragorn."

A sudden shock of emotion took Frodo's breath away. He recovered himself sufficiently to say a little raggedly, "Why, thank you, Sam."

"It's all right, Frodo," Sam said gently. "It must seem terrible strange after all this time."

Holding the envelopes in both hands in his lap, Frodo said, "Stranger than you know, my friend." He hesitated, not entirely sure that he should broach the subject now. And then it was too late, the words seeming to speak themselves: "Not six months have passed since I left the Havens. For me, that is."

Sam frowned at him. "Whatever do you mean?"

"Simply that. I can't explain it, but time passes much more slowly here. I am not even a year older, but you—you must be nearly a hundred by now."

"One hundred and two," Sam said off-handedly. "But don't we share the sun and the moon? And the months—aren't they the same?"

"I don't know how it 'works,' Sam," Frodo replied helplessly. "But I know it's different. I saw you in the palantír only a few months ago, and you were younger, and your children were still in their first years. Not that you look that much older now," Frodo reflected softly.

Sam was staring at him frankly astonished. "You _saw_ me? In the palantír?"

"Elrond brought it from Middle-earth for his lady Celebrían. So that she could see Arwen. He had to alter it somehow, so that it could view a particular direction—and across that strange distance. She learned that you and Merry and Pippin would be visiting Minas Tirith and persuaded Elrond to let me look inside."

Uttering a low, unintelligible sound, Sam sank back in his cushion.

"What is it, Sam?" Frodo asked anxiously.

"That day—I know which day you mean—I thought of you as if you were there. How do I put this? Never a day went by that I didn't think of you, mind. Never one. But that day, it was as if you were right there at my shoulder, and if I turned about, I'd see you. And now you're telling me that you _were_ there." Sam's eyes were shining. "It's more than I can take in, Mr. Frodo. It doesn't make a bit of sense."

"Not a whit. I could not agree with you more." Frodo's expression softened. "I longed to reach out and tap your shoulder and say, 'I'm here.'"

"And what I wouldn't have given to feel that finger. Just to know that you were well." Sam shook himself. "Not that I had any reason to think you'd not been properly looked after and all—but I did fret from time to time, despite myself." He sat down. "But here you are, and not a year older."

"And what about you, Sam?" Frodo widened his eyes for emphasis. "You can't have aged more than ten years since I left the Shire."

Sam spread his hands before him. "Don't imagine it's gone unremarked! My Rosie used to say that there were Elvish magic behind it. Not that she minded." Sam's lips turned up in a reminiscent smile. "Liked having a young hobbit for a husband, she used to say."

Frodo remarked gently, "How you must miss her."

"More than words can credit." Sam looked suddenly wretched. "But I couldn't do what you said, Mr. Frodo, though I tried. Truly, I did."

A little alarmed, Frodo said, "Sam?"

"She knew, did Rosie. You told me that I must not always be torn in two, and I did try. But she knew."

Frodo could think of nothing to say.

Sam's gaze fell, and he said quietly, "One of the last things she said to me was, 'You tell your Mr. Frodo that I've kept you a long time—and I'm not apologizing for that'—she said. 'But I'm sending you to him now, so as you might look after him. You've missed him long enough, Samwise.' That's what she said. My own Rosie."

"Oh, Sam." Frodo set the envelopes on the table and reached out for his friend's hands. "Dear Sam." He waited until Sam raised his eyes. "I have a confession, too. I did not believe you would come over sea. Remember: I saw you in Minas Tirith with all your family about you. You looked happy and at peace. Whyever should you leave?"

"There's all kinds of happiness, Mr. Frodo, as you well know." His brow darkened. "I can tell you when I started hearing the sea: it was just before Aragorn traveled to Lake Evendim to visit his northern holdings. He didn't come into the Shire—he'd passed a ruling that no Big People are allowed in the Shire, ever—but he invited us to meet him and Queen Arwen, as his special guests. When his invitation arrived, one thing led to another and I told Elanor that I might see you again. I told her, even though she was very young. She loved hearing stories about you, loved knowing that you had seen her." Sam's shoulders rose and fell. "And she understood. She called you my treasure."

Incapable of words, Frodo stared down at their joined hands. Then: "I wanted you to stay in the Shire," he whispered. "To live out your days there, where you were happiest. But I wanted you with me, too. Forgive me, Sam, if you left all your family because of me."

Sam gave Frodo's fingers a sharp squeeze. "I was happy, for many a year. Because of you. But even if I hadn't missed the Elves—there are precious few of them in Middle-earth, you know, now, at least round abouts the Shire—or been hearing the sea for years and years, louder and louder—I'd've wanted to come. Unfinished business, like, Mr. Frodo, seeing you taken care of—" he laughed suddenly "—in your dotage, as I thought!" Then he, too, quietly regarded their hands for a moment. "But there's another Frodo that's master of Bag End now, and his children and their children have run of the place." With a rueful grin, he said, "It would fair make your hair stand on end to hear all the shrieking and ruckus that goes on there." He laughed, and then sobered, almost at once. "They didn't want me to go. But they knew it was my time, just as it had been yours all those years before. I made my good-byes, handed the Red Book over to my Elanor, and went on past the White Towers to the Havens. Merry and Pippin met me on the quay, just as they did you, before the ship sailed. That's when Merry gave me your letter. Pippin can't be bothered to write, any more now than he could before; but he gave some words to Merry to put down that are from him. And an extra packet of Longbottom, which we've yet to open."

"I can picture them clearly." And then Frodo said on a sudden painful thought, "Though I remember them as they were, not as they are now. Describe them to me, Sam."

For a moment Sam looked utterly discomposed. "They're both silver-haired, and—well, they look like old hobbits, Mr. Frodo. As you remember them, I'm sure, but older. And they're both hale and lively. And their children take after them, you know: unruly and into everything. More than once I had to offer a stern word. Sometimes," he added with remembered exasperation, "they even listened to me." 

Frodo said wonderingly, "How you've changed, Sam." 

"I expect I have," Sam agreed comfortably. "I was master of Bag End for three score years and mayor of the Shire, nearly as many. Could even hold my own with your Pippin and Merry, not to mention their children, and that's saying a lot."

Frodo chuckled. "More than you know." He gave Sam's hands a shake. "Well, Mr. Gamgee, we are two of a kind. The _only_ two of our kind here. I have so much to show you, even a few new tales to tell. And you can help me complete the writing of the Ring tale, if your Elvish is up to it. And if it isn't, you can help me remember all the things I've tried to forget."

Sam beamed. "I expect I can do a bit of both, Mr. Frodo." He waved Frodo back to his chair. "Now you go ahead and read your letters, if you like. And I'll just drink my tea and close my eyes for a minute or two."

Frodo studied him with some concern. "Are you feeling all ri—?"

"As sunshine in summer." When Frodo didn't seem persuaded, he went on, "And rain in spring. And snow in winter. Just catching up, that's all."

Accepting this with forced grace, Frodo directed himself to his letters. At first he simply turned them over and over, relishing the texture of the parchment, the elegance of both Aragorn's and Merry's hands, though each was quite distinct from the other. And then he contemplated which he should open first. He heard a sound of amusement, but when he glanced sharply at Sam, his friend was sitting with eyes closed and head resting against the cushioned chair-back—and traces of a tiny smile playing about his mouth.

He decided to open the envelope from Aragorn first. His eyes skimmed over the beautifully formed characters, even though his intention had been to savor every word. Almost at once he found himself on the verge of tears. He could hear Aragorn's voice in the friendly phrases, feel his affection and unabashed love in lines that reminded him of his unlessened gratitude and respect. Aragorn spoke of his wife and beautiful daughters and the son who had recently ensured his lineage. Of Gondor and the settlement of lands and the establishment of peace. Of the wealth of his people and their contentment. Of the histories being written and maintained and those yet to come. And of his wishes for Frodo's health and joy.

Frodo refolded the letter and meticulously put it back within its envelope. With reverent fingers, he set it on the table and took up the envelope from Merry.

Merry's letter was longer and more detailed. In it he described the state of the Shire, its people, and in particular the crops of pipe-weed, which had flourished for decades and showed no signs of failing. In concise terms, he reported the number of children born to him and the former Estella Bolger, their personalities and penchant for mayhem (scandalously suggesting that if he trusted Pippin less, he might hold him responsible for a strikingly Tookish son); his continued association with the King, whom he declared still much the same as when they first met him as Strider, despite the cares and demands of kingship; his fealty to Éomer, who was now growing old, and to Rohan; and a very brief and general overview of events in the Shire. The last lines were directly quoted from Pippin, informing him of his continued service to Gondor and the King; acquainting him with his disorderly children: too much like himself to be refuted but certainly more rambunctious than he could ever have aspired to being; and, surprisingly, his regret that Sam was leaving. As fathers-in-marriage, they had become quite close through the years. The letter closed with a statement of their love.

Frodo laid the second letter on top of the first, and tapped it lightly. He felt Sam's eyes on him, and met them. "Thank you," he murmured.

"Here, Frodo," Sam said understandingly, and handed him his handkerchief.

* * *

Throughout that day Frodo learned many things, including how it had come about that Pippin's son Faramir and Sam's daughter Goldilocks had married. The world of the Shire, only five months in the past for Frodo, had continued for another sixty-one years for Sam, and much, of course, had happened during that time. Through Sam's words, Frodo imagined himself at Pippin's and Merry's weddings, at the naming of their children, on the road to Gondor and Rohan and back again, the trials of their offspring as they matured and came of age, and with Sam, wandering the lanes and fields now restored to their former beauty; and in Bag End, little changed as he had known it, but the home now of many Gardners.

"Your children have changed their names?" Frodo asked.

"It's how we're known," Sam replied pragmatically.

It was a little strange thinking of Merry and Pippin as parents with families of their own, but through Sam's telling they aged from young hobbits to established leaders of the community. The Shire had benefited from the worldly-wisdom of the three hobbits, and though few wished to follow in their footsteps (or suffer their privations), because of them the world outside was no longer such a frightful place, nor its various inhabitants looked down upon or wholly avoided.

In the afternoon, Frodo walked with Sam to the little clearing where Bilbo was buried. The earth, in so short a time, had completely reclaimed its wildness. They sat there together, protected from a fine drizzle of rain, and talked about Bilbo. Sam listened, a frowning sympathy on his face, as Frodo described his last day. But when Frodo was through, Sam remarked only that he wished he could have seen him once more.

Gandalf collected them late in the day, and they went across the courtyard to the great hall in Elrond's house. The tables were bountiful with food and not a chair was unclaimed save those held for them.

"Welcome, Samwise Gamgee," Elrond said expansively as they took their seats. "Here is the companion of Frodo Baggins, one of his kind, and a bearer, too, of the One Ring."

He was greeted with many kind words and kindly smiles. Sam accepted them with a reciprocal smile and a gracious nod. Inwardly, Frodo applauded Sam's aplomb and marveled at how like, yet unlike, he was to the hobbit who had shared his journey to Mordor.

The Elves asked many questions. Those who had lived in Middle-earth wondered how their remaining kindred fared and were pleased and perhaps surprised when he gave them knowledgeable answers, thanks to his continued friendship with Legolas. He spoke familiarly of the King and his Elven wife, Queen Arwen. Frodo's eyes strayed involuntarily to Celebrían, who listened without expression, even when Sam mentioned their children, reciting their names and describing something of their natures.

It was Cirlad who brought up the events of the war of the Ring, and, more specifically, the events that had brought about its conclusion. "You, too, were a Ring-bearer," he said. "Yet you let it go. You gave it up willingly."

"That's a fact," Sam said amiably. "And I've thought of it a time or two—about why I could, I mean." He nodded toward Frodo. "I'm not strong like dear Mr. Bilbo, even less, Mr. Frodo, who wore it for over a year, fighting it every second of every minute of every hour of every day. That I couldn't have done."

"But what if you'd had to?" Cirlad asked. "What if Frodo had been killed?"

"Then Sauron would be in charge of Middle-earth," Sam said with bland assertion. "Even when I thought Frodo was dead, I couldn't leave him." He cast his gaze dryly round the table. "Perhaps if you'd known that, I wouldn't be here now."

"You did resist it," Elrond said mildly. "Had you failed then, there would have been no second chance for Frodo to deliver it to Orodruin."

"Well, you know, I've thought about that, about me resisting it," Sam said slowly. "The Ring just didn't want me. It wanted someone greater, someone who could resist it. It was filled with malice, that Ring."

"Did it long for someone who would fail at the very last moment?" asked Cirlad with quiet irony.

For a moment not a whisper of sound could be heard. Gandalf's brows went up, but he, like the others, awaited Sam's response.

Sam regarded the Elf levelly, but Frodo could sense his tension. "If you're referring to my master," Sam said eventually, "then you don't—" he hesitated. "That is, if that Gollum hadn't interfered, Frodo would have found the strength to get about doing what needed being done."

"Even after he had claimed the Ring for himself?"

"The Ring was strong at the Cracks of Doom, I grant you. But Mr. Frodo was stronger. He just needed time to think it through."

"Do you really…?"

The Elf was interrupted by a quiet but clear voice. "What does Frodo say?"

Recognizing those familiar tones but startled to hear them in this place, Frodo looked down the table to the open archway. The Lady Galadriel stood there, staring calmly back at him.

Dimly aware of the shocked silence surrounding them, he smiled at her. "I say that Samwise Gamgee is one of the finest hobbits ever born to the Shire. Without him the Ring Quest must have failed." He turned toward Sam. "All who survived Sauron's evil are in his debt." His smile broadened and he bowed his head toward Galadriel. "Welcome, lady."

The crackle and hiss of the fire in the great hearth uttered loudly. Galadriel dipped her head in return and continued toward the table of honor. "Thank you, Frodo of the Shire. We are indeed in his debt—quite nearly as much as we are in yours."

At once, several Elves rose and made the proper courtesies as Galadriel passed by, several offering their places. She took a seat at the head of the table, near Elrond, who greeted her warmly. Gandalf made a sound behind his hand that might have been choking—or suppressed laughter. "Welcome, mother," Celebrían said, clearly bemused. "We are honored."

After that the hobbits were, if not forgotten, no longer the center of attention. They ate and drank and listened to various conversations and, later, sweet singing swirling about them. As the evening deepened, Frodo wished that Bilbo might have stayed to share in it. Yet, save for missing Bilbo, his joy was rich and sweet, and he felt for the first time as though he belonged here, among the Eldar.

* * *

When the stars were sharp points of brilliance amidst the black sky, Frodo and Sam slipped away across the courtyard. Indefatigable Ellhach greeted them with ale and roasted seeds before disappearing into the night. They took themselves, well wrapped in their cloaks, into the garden beneath the study window. For some little while they sat pleasantly unspeaking, listening to the Elves' songs, ethereal and faint on the chill air.

Placing his mug on the low wooden bench that served as their table, Sam finally commented with satisfaction, "Well, I think I shall feel right at home here."

"Do you indeed?" Frodo said, wondering if Sam had learned irony in his years as mayor, though his words had contained not a trace of it.

"Felt like I was at a council meeting of the Five Farthings. These folk are just about as nettlesome and excitable as hobbits."

Frodo laughed. "Council meetings, Sam? But wait—did you say 'Five' Farthings?"

"Yes, council meetings, Mr. Frodo. And, yes, _Five Farthings_." He took a deep breath. Tilting his head, he regarded Frodo with great fondness. "I have so much to tell you! But I shall start with council meetings. 'Tis still the mayor, you know, over all, but now each Farthing has a say in things." Frodo could see starshine glinting off Sam's teeth and the whites of his eyes. "And you know how hobbits relish having a say."

"Mayoral duties have expanded since my time, then. It used to be all parties and kissing babies."

"Oh, much more now. Fair openings, disputes needing resolving, parceling out of lands. Mind you, there was a fair old do when Aragorn ceded the Westmarch to the Shire."

"Did he?"

"Aye. The old-timers call it the 'Wester Farthing'—just as a joke, you see. My own Elanor and her lot live there. One of her sons, the job handed down from his father, is the Warden now."

"Little Elanor." Frodo smiled to himself.

"Not little anymore—not that way, anyways. Still lovely—Elvish-like—with her pretty face and fair hair." Sam smiled vaguely. "Aragorn has a great love of hobbits, he has. Especially you. Your birthday is a feast day in Gondor, you know. And every fourth year, there's a catch-up day to keep the years on an equal footing, and that day follows your birthday. It's called Cormarë."

"'Ring Day,'" Frodo murmured. "How extraordinary."

"Only fitting."

The breeze freshened, swooping through the courtyard and stirring their hair. Frodo looked sidelong at Sam. "Might I persuade you to break out a sample of Pippin's Longbottom, Sam?"

"You might indeed," Sam stood at once, finished his mug, and held out a helping hand to Frodo.

* * *

The following day broke bright and sweet-smelling, following a night of drizzle. After a yawning comb-out of his hair, Frodo ambled into the kitchen. There he discovered still-hot bread and new butter, a plate of fruit, and a tray of cheese, and a small basket of eggs. Chewing on a crust, he heated butter in the pan and when it was sizzling, broke several eggs on top.

Sam appeared, slapping his braces onto his shoulders. "What's this? Are you doing me out of a job?"

"I thought you might lie in a bit," Frodo replied, greeting Sam with a grin. "But you're welcome to take over if you don't trust my cooking."

Eyes twinkling, Sam said, "It's been some years since I did much in the kitchen, Mr. Frodo. But I promise not to poison you. Now you just sit down over there."

Despite his protestations, Sam's cooking was as palatable as ever. Frodo sighed as he mopped egg yolk off his plate with a chunk of bread.

Sam set his mug of tea on the table and folded his hands together. "I've been thinking on last night. Lady Galadriel, and when she came into Elrond's hall. Did I imagine things were rather queer there?"

"You did not imagine it," Frodo replied. "Oh! Wait a moment." He went into his room and dug out of a dresser drawer the small packet that Galadriel had given him some while a go. "This is for you," he said, as he handed it over. While Sam unwrapped it, revealing a long, velvety soft scarf, made on her loom, Frodo refilled his cup and raised it to his lips. "I know you will find it hard to believe, Sam, but the Lady has been treated rather shabbily."

Holding the scarf against his cheek, Sam's face darkened. He looked all at once as if he might rise and venture forth in her defense. "How can that be, Mr. Frodo?"

"There are some of the old Elves who remember her—" he hesitated, searching for the correct word "—disobedience to Manwë many ages ago." His mouth twisted a little. "Their opinion has not greatly changed here, even in the presence of the Valar."

"But that's horrid!"

"She doesn't mind," Frodo assured him, "or so she told me." He took a moment to sip his tea. "Don't be too upset, Sam. Last night she came in your honor, of that I've no doubt. That's why everything turned queer, as you saw. She hadn't bothered with their company before then."

"For me, Mr. Frodo?" Sam said in a whisper. He placed the scarf about his shoulders.

"So I believe."

A flush of color rose in Sam's cheeks. "Bless me!"

The sun was a little higher in the sky when they had cleaned up after themselves, and a day fine with clear skies and unexpected warmth awaited them. Sam wished to wander where Frodo had wandered, so Frodo took him first a little ways into the wood west of their apartments, up to the ridgeline, then down the long sloping hill to the orchards, which now were frilly with clusters of fragrant blooms. As they walked back up the path to Elrond's house, they were met by an Elf on horseback, leading another horse.

"Good morning, Lady Celebrían," Frodo said, bowing neatly as she drew near. He raised his brows at sight of Rocaran trailing behind.

"And to you, Frodo Baggins. I did not have an opportunity to welcome you last night, Samwise Gamgee. I do so now."

Sam executed a perfect bow of his own. "Lady. I thank you."

"Will you ride with me, both of you, to visit my mother?"

Sam looked startled, his eyes fixed on the great red horse.

"We would be honored," Frodo said. "If you give me a foot up, Sam, I will pull you up after."

Sam's eyes grew even wider. "You've taken to riding horses?"

"This horse, in fact. He is mine: a gift of the Lady Celebrían."

The horse stood calmly waiting, its brown gaze watchful.

"Well, all right," Sam said, his expression one of astonishment mixed with reservation. He formed a stirrup with his hands for Frodo, and then hoisted him into the saddle. Frodo balanced himself and reached down at once, tugging Sam up behind him.

"You don't mind if I hold onto you, Frodo?" Sam said.

"Of course not. You needn't hold on too tightly, though, for Rocaran will not let either of us tumble off."

"Rocaran," Sam muttered, as Frodo nudged the horse to fall into line behind the Lady's mount. They rode through the courtyard and east onto the path that wound back up toward the ridgeline. Frodo listened with great pleasure to Sam's gasps of delight as they rose higher and higher before turning down into the wood at the eastward end of the ridge. The warmth of the sun had already dried the dampness from the boughs, so they traveled in comfort amidst dappled darkness. If only Merry and Pippin could see us," Sam said with a low whistle. "They wouldn't believe their eyes."

Eventually they came to the clearing that Frodo knew. At its edge, the sweet notes of Galadriel's song gentle in their ears, they dismounted, landing on accumulated leaves and needles, as soft as cushions. Rocaran's head came round and he regarded Sam steadily. Reaching high, Frodo rubbed his velvety muzzle. "Thank you, my friend." A little awkwardly, Sam patted the horse's flank.

Celebrían led the way into the clearing where Galadriel's loom stood. The Lady continued to sing, working the shuttle with grace and speed. Sam and Frodo made the proper courtesies, and then waited. Celebrían wandered over to a curved bench and there took up a square of needlework, clearly abandoned some time before. Another moment passed, and then one of the Lady's attendants arrived with a tray of goblets, which she set on another bench opposite the one where Celebrían sat. She smiled at Frodo and Sam and signed for them to sit and help themselves. Galadriel's song came to an end as they drained their cups.

"Hello, Frodo," she said. "Welcome, Samwise."

Sam rose at once and bowed again.

"How do you find your new home? I see that you wear the scarf that I made for you," she said.

"Thank you, Lady. I will treasure it always. And my new home—it is very fair indeed," Sam replied.

"And your journey hither?" She waved him back to his seat.

Looking a little less uneasy once more in close proximity to Frodo, Sam hesitated. "Well—meaning no disrespect, Lady, but it was a bit odd. Hobbits—most of them anyway—take no comfort in boating. And being on water in darkness like that is about as uncomforting as being in water without a boat."

"So dire," Galadriel commiserated. "You are a brave fellow, Samwise. Coming here alone must have been the bravest thing you have done."

Sam blushed to his roots. "I was well looked after along the way," he said. "And I was counting on Mr. Frodo to be waiting for me."

"Was it very difficult leaving the Shire?" she asked kindly.

With a quick, affectionate glance at Frodo, Sam said, "If I could have been in both places, there and here, I would have. I've been that worried about him, my master. But I had a wife and family, and I couldn't leave them before time."

"Yet you left them in the end."

"They're all grown now and on their own. And of course my eldest, he's been itching for me to go: couldn't wait to be master of Bag End in his turn." Sam's sweet grin gave the lie to his words. "Though it did plague him a little that the years seemed to rest so easy on me. Wasn't seldom strangers mistook me for his son!"

The Lady sharpened her gaze, her golden hair drifting forward onto her shoulder like beams of light made soft. "Surely you wondered about that?"

"That I did. Nor was I the only one!" Sam shook his head. "More than once I was accused of taking up wizard craft! Me! Those as knew me made sport of such witlessness, but others would search for an explanation. And I didn't have even one."

"Did you not?"

"Well, I reckoned it must be something to do with Mr. Frodo's job with the Ring, and now I come to see him looking not a year older, at first I thought I was onto it. But he's told me that he isn't a year older, so I reckon maybe not."

"Can you think of nothing else?"

"Erm, yes. And no. That is, I guess I was wrong."

"Wrong about what?"

"The mallorn tree, the nut you gave me. I coddled and loved that tree from the first hint of green pushing up through the ground and for all the years I lived in the Shire. So as time went by and I didn't change—or not very much—I thought, well, maybe it was somehow the mallorn. My Rosie, bless her soul, always said it must be Elvish magic, my staying so young, and that mallorn growing so great and beautiful was surely Elvish magic. But—"

"Yes?"

"Well, my son Frodo started looking after that tree when he was but a tiny lad, and he's as grey of head and grizzled as my old gaffer was before he died."

"Samwise, is that all that I gave you?"

Sam's puckered brow cast shadows over his eyes. "There was the pretty box it came in."

"And—?"

"Well, the dust—"

Galadriel smiled at him. "You alone touched it. Is that not so?"

"Why, yes. But—"

"But?"

"How—?" He shrugged helplessly. "It made everything grow faster. Shouldn't I be ancient now rather than decades younger than I ought to be?"

Galadriel laughed out loud. Frodo felt as though sunshine had been poured straight into his chest and found himself laughing, too. "You would indeed be ancient if my dust—the dust of Valinor, for it came with me when I returned to Middle-earth—made things grow faster. The dust is pure, and what your kind might call blessed. There is nothing in it of decay or harm. For your plants it provided protection and nurturing; for you, protection against many of the ills that come with the ageing of mortals. Such a thing must seem magical to you—and you once said that you wished to witness Elvish magic. Well, my friend Samwise Gamgee, you have _become_ Elvish magic."

Sam's mouth curved into a lopsided grin. He thought about this for a moment and nodded. "The dust." He met the Lady's sparkling gaze. "And you gave it to me so that I could be with Mr. Frodo. So he wouldn't be alone."

Galadriel studied him with respect but said nothing.

Frodo felt himself suddenly flush. "You knew?" he said. "You knew even then that Sam and I must come over sea?"

There was deep compassion in the Lady's eyes. "I knew that you were carrying the One Ring, and that it was a great burden even then, when I met you. I knew that you had been wounded with a Morgul blade, and that the wraith world shifted about you like mist on a lake. No one, Frodo, not even one of the hearty folk of the Shire, not even Frodo Baggins, strongest of his kind, could have fully recovered from such hardships."

Frodo sensed Sam's concern. He reached round absently and tapped his knee, reassuring himself as much as Sam. "Did I seem very foolish? I never expected to succeed in completing the task Gandalf assigned for me. Perhaps it would have helped if I had known the path would end here, no matter what I did."

"You and I have spoken of such paths before, Frodo. As you know, there was never only one path, but many."

"But if—"

"Yes. If. If you and Sam completed your tasks. If you and Sam survived the journey home. If you and Sam overcame your wounds and experiences. So many ifs. But if all of that happened, then, and only then, might you benefit from my gifts. And so you did."

"Well, I for one am right grateful," Sam said stoutly. "Once I'd committed to my family, I couldn't go away with you, Mr. Frodo." A long unresolved hint of guilt threaded Sam's words. "But I'm here now, and it's only because of the Lady's magic and her knowing. You're not sorry, are you?"

In Sam's face Frodo saw a kind of dread. "I am not sorry, Sam." He put his arm round his shoulder and hugged him close. "But you must understand, I have not had your years to develop any measure of wisdom. Sometimes I may seem small and petty as a result."

Sam made a rude sound before recalling himself to his company. With a quick, apologetic glance at Galadriel, he said firmly, "Never! Nor will I hear such nonsense from you."

"Well said, Samwise," Gandalf said, from the edge of the wood. "He may not have been foolish then, but your master has moments when I do wonder about him."

Sam radiated indignation, bristling like a rooster whose hens are under threat. Gandalf laughed.

"It's all right, Sam," Frodo said, and with a quick squeeze let him go. "I shall never become overfull of myself so long as Gandalf is here to keep me humble."

"You have every right to be overfull of yourself, Mr. Frodo. None more so."

"I do agree with you, Sam," Gandalf said sincerely. "But it is a lofty place to live, and your Frodo simply does not have a head for such heights."

"Will you take a meal with us?" Galadriel asked.

Sam's stomach gave up a woeful sound. He clapped his hand to it and looked embarrassed, but Frodo laughed. "With gratitude, my lady."

Celebrían's fingers worked the needle without pause as Galadriel led the way into the trees. Sam hung back, glancing over his shoulder at her. Sensing his dismay, Gandalf said softly, "She will follow when she is ready. Come along."

They walked a winding path through the crowding growth of tall, firred trees, years of needles underfoot, which, sometimes to the hobbits' distaste, were sticky with resin. As they hopped along behind, Sam continued to look back and at last whispered to Frodo, "Is she always like that?"

Picking a clutch of needles from between his toes, Frodo replied, "Yes. Always." As they hurried to catch up, he recounted in a soft tone the lady's story as it had been told to him.

"Orcs!" Sam said on an explosion of breath. Shaking his head, he muttered something that Frodo couldn't hear but left it at that.

They settled near a warm fire in a brightly decorated pavilion. The hobbits ate and listened while Galadriel and Gandalf spoke of Tol Eressëa: its history, its delights. Gandalf promised Sam that he would take them to Kortirion one day and the western shore, from which Valmar could be seen. Sam's expression of distraction changed to one of dreamy pleasure, and he peppered Gandalf with many questions about the sights they would see.

When the afternoon had faded to evening, Celebrían appeared, tranquilly walking before her horse and Frodo's. "Will you ride back with me?" she asked.

"They will," Gandalf replied for him. "I am quite worn out by their unceasing questions."

Sam made as if to apologize, but Gandalf merely waved him aside, his eyes warm and full of firelight. He helped the hobbits to mount and waved them on their way.

Following Celebrían's lead, the bay broke through the trees some while later and hurried down the slope of the mountain. Sam clung tightly to Frodo, not liking the height, even though the horse's smooth stride made for a rather pleasant motion. While they had been in the pavilion, clouds had built overhead, borne on a chill breeze that whipped their hair and brought color to their faces. They reached their dwelling as rain began to fall. In the courtyard, Ellhach greeted them and urged them inside while he took care of the horses. Celebrían stood in the rain for a moment, and Frodo wondered if she wished to speak with them. He went back to her, Sam at his heels, and said, "Lady?"

But she only offered a fey little smile, imparted fairly between them. Frodo might have found that worrying, but she raised her face to the soft moisture, breathed deeply, and then turned away.

"Come," Ellhach said. "There is hot water and food on the table."

Later, as they sat before the fire in their sitting room, their tea drunk and their pipes lit, Sam remarked, "The dust. Why did I never think of it?"

"What difference would it have made?" Frodo asked practically.

Wriggling his feet, Sam shrugged. "It was a very great gift. For me and for the Shire. If I'd known—"

"If you'd known?" Frodo nudged him.

"With a faintly guilty downturn of his mouth, Sam explained, "I never let no one else put that tiny pinch of dust in the earth, you see. Only me."

"It was meant for you, Sam. You alone."

"Hm." Sam's mouth split into a wide smile and he laughed out loud. "Well, I'm older than you now! Isn't that a curious thing!"

"Indeed, you are older. Perhaps all of ten years."

Sam exhaled thoughtfully. "Will it catch up with me, do you think? The way it did Mr. Bilbo in Rivendell?"

Frodo gazed into the fire. "I do not think it will, Sam. That was the Ring, you know." He fell silent.

Sam said suddenly, as if it was important to fill the emptiness, "That Rocaran of yours: he's a bit bigger than your old Strider, isn't he?"

Frodo's face cleared. "Strider! I'd nearly forgotten him, Sam! How is—?" He caught himself, and then flushed beneath Sam's indulgent look.

"He looked for you, after you went away," Sam said quietly. "Once my Elanor was old enough to ride him, he was all right. Used to follow her and the other little ones around when he was allowed to. Years later, when he was too old even for them, he spent his hours in the pasture sleeping and staring down the hills toward the road. I think he was looking for you even then."

Frodo shook his head.

Sam exclaimed abruptly, "I wish you could have been there, Mr. Frodo! I wish you could have seen the way the land came back after Saruman's dirty tricks. And the little ones, so happy and fat and beautiful. And the way everyone worked together. I wish—"

Frodo laid his hand on Sam's knee. "Don't take this amiss, Sam, but I should not have survived your first term as mayor."

Mouth open, Sam stared at him for a couple of heartbeats. And then he laughed, as Frodo had meant him to. "I reckon that's true. But it doesn't stop my wishing."

* * *

In the days that followed, the two hobbits continued to resume their friendship. Frodo took Sam to the promontory overlooking the vast expanse of misty sea, horizon, and sky, and there they spent many sunny afternoons. They rambled in the fields east of Elrond's house, idling in the budding flowers and spring-green grasses when the ground was dry; and, when the air was wet through and through, they explored the woods westward and the north-lying ridgeline, cozy under the broad branches of green-tipped conifers and huge mallorns. They collected pinecones for their fire and sprigs of early blooms for the table. Gandalf held true to his word and escorted them on longer journeys about the island. They traveled to venerable Kortirion and met Elves more ancient than Galadriel, and by them were warmly greeted and cared for. He took them to the nearby Land of Elms and, later, on a weeks-long journey west over the knees of mountains and through low-lying valleys to the Falassë Númea. They remained there for several days, catered for and revered, before returning home along the northern shores. When at last they drew in sight of their apartments across the courtyard from Elrond's house, Sam heaved a great sigh and proclaimed that he was glad to be home at last.

They were welcomed with feasting and a procession of visitors. Sam took to rising early so that he could spend a few hours unencumbered in the gardens. Frodo watched him, a mug of tea in hand on a frosty morning, while Sam tamped the freshly turned soil over the seeds he had entrusted to its care.

"And there?" he asked, gesturing toward the west end of the plot.

"Nasturtians," Sam replied, briskly brushing dirt from his hands. He indicated a spot nearer to the wall. "Sunflowers. And there, snapdragons." He smiled his thanks as Frodo handed him a steaming mug.

"Bilbo would be pleased," Frodo said. "He wanted a bit of the Shire."

Pointing at the space beneath the study window, Sam added, "And, here, I'll plant the seeds the Lady gave me." Galadriel had given him another small packet some weeks ago. Sam had known instantly what they were, his face lighting with enthusiasm and gratitude. "Rose seeds," he had said, and then repeated in his softest tones, "Rose seeds. They will be right beautiful, I'm sure of it."

Stretching his lower back, Sam winced. "Tomorrow I'll oversee the planting of the first crop of Southern Star. That would have made him even happier."

Frodo laughed softly. "So it would have."

The morning was damp, and the mist grew into a light rain as they stood there, draining their mugs and taking in the air.

"How is the writing coming, Frodo?" Sam asked later as he filled their mugs in the kitchen.

Stirring the embers, Frodo sat on the bench beside him and gratefully took the proffered mug. "A little ways to go yet. Deep in Mordor," he said with forced cheerfulness.

"A dark place to think of even here in this fair land," Sam said.

"Yes. Memory can be quite as unpleasant as the event—or so it seems."

Sam sipped from his mug. Gazing into Frodo's eyes, he said, "I used to dream of Mordor sometimes. And I'd wake shivering and sick. So as not to stir Rosie, I'd take myself outside and smell the Shire and listen to it. After a while I would go back inside, though not often to sleep."

A look of understanding passed between them. It was not necessary to say more.

* * *

Frodo woke from a dream of Middle-earth. In the blackness of night he lay a moment waiting for his speeding heart to resume its steady pace. He was drenched in sweat even though it was only the first month of summer. Inhaling shakily, he rose from his bed and went out into the corridor. The light of the kitchen fire guided him to the kettle and he filled it and put it on to boil. His natural calm was returning with each unhurried breath. By the time the tea was brewed, he was quite at peace, the dream no longer a nightmare but merely a revisioning of images of the past—or so he told himself.

"Frodo?" Sam stood in the doorway, wrapped in his robe, running a hand through his hair.

"Tea, Sam?" Frodo raised the pot.

Sam nodded. "I'm parched."

They sat facing each other, both hobbits heavy-lidded and dough-faced. "Would it help to wrap words about it?" Sam asked.

Frodo's head moved tersely from side to side. "It was just a dream. I know that." He looked up and met Sam's eyes. "But it took me back to Mordor: the hopelessness and the dread."

"Those were evil times," Sam agreed solemnly. "My children—they thought it exciting. A grand adventure."

Frodo was silent for a long moment. "You wondered once what others would think of our tale." He forced a smile. "'A grand adventure,' indeed."

"They couldn't know." Sam's rueful smile matched Frodo's for lack of humor. "And I reckon that's why we were there."

"So they would never have to know," Frodo agreed in a harsh whisper. "And here we are. I'm sorry I woke you, Sam."

Sam reached out and took Frodo's hands in his. "You've nothing to apologize for."

* * *

Two weeks later, Frodo was roused mid-night by the pressure of fingers on his shoulder. "Frodo. Wake up, my friend."

"Gandalf?" Frodo raised himself with palms braced behind him on the mattress. A flickering light illumined Gandalf's face; it was serene as ever, but fixed with purpose. "What is it? What is the time?"

"The stars are not yet at their brightest," Gandalf replied. "Sunrise lies many hours away." He stepped back. "A ship arrives with the dawn. Will you meet it?"

Frodo came awake all at once. Gandalf's face, schooled to impassivity, told him nothing. "Of course."

"While you dress," Gandalf said, "I shall stir Sam."

A short time later, the thunder of horses' hooves rang in their ears as they pelted down the mountainside. Sam clung to Frodo's waist, his face turned into his jacket. But for the light of the stars, there was nothing to guide their way, and they relied on their mounts' sure knowledge of the terrain to keep them from harm. The air was cool rather than cold, yet the hobbits, their sleep disturbed, huddled in their cloaks.

Gandalf ignored their questions regarding who might be aboard the incoming ship, so Frodo and Sam fell to hissing speculations over the sound of their passage. Between them, they spoke of Celeborn and Elrond's sons, Elrohir and Elladan, though they were unlikely possibilities. Perhaps it was Legolas, who had begun to hear the sea long before Frodo had departed the shores of Middle-earth.

Now that he was awake, Frodo almost wished that he had declined Gandalf's offer to join him: the clock in his head still counted the hours of Middle-earth, and he knew that any emissary arriving from his homeland after five months—or sixty years—must have unhappy news for him and Sam. Sam must have sensed the change in his mood, and their conversation died.

They stopped only once, after reaching the extensive hilly regions west of the Havens. It was not for the horses, who seemed unwinded even after hours of strenuous mountain travel. Rocaran, though not so fleet as Shadowfax seemed equally as tireless. When the hobbits remounted after a brief halt alongside a fresh-running stream, the horses surged forward as though eager to continue their night journey.

In the last hour before dawn, they raced down the road encircling the port city, and thundered down the slopes leading to the quay. A lone figure, palely outlined by the greying of day, stood cloaked and hooded at the end of the stone walk. There were other Elves, obscured by shadow, who came forth to tend to their horses while they dismounted. Gandalf wordlessly led the way to the one waiting. A tendril of gold, as bright as the glancing light of the sun, escaped from the confines of an Elvish hood—and Frodo guessed its owner before she turned to greet them.

"There," Galadriel said, nodding her head toward something far off in the misty water.

Frodo had not noticed the grey airs wreathing the outer banks until now, and they seemed to rise to meet the sky as he stared outward. His eyes searched the direction he thought she had indicated, but he could make out nothing but fog and mist.

"Mr. Frodo, look!" Sam exclaimed, and bracing him with a hand pointed at a tiny spot that was emerging from the thickness.

"I see it," Frodo whispered exultantly.

There were only two slanting sails, but the ship itself, just visible above the waterline, was small. As it drew nearer, running inland with the wind, Frodo could make out a single sailor. He glanced at Gandalf and quickly at Galadriel, but both were fixed on the vessel's approach. Others were coming down the walk, but none that he recognized. No—there was Elrond and a few members of his house, but not Celebrían.

"Mr. Frodo," Sam breathed. "Well, I never—"

The ship was entering the quieter waters of the Havens, sails luffing, a paddle dipping into the short waves to steer her in. But the ship, as gracefully built and shaped as any Elvish ship Frodo had seen, was not so remarkable as her occupants.

"Are Dwarves _allowed_ in Valinor?" Sam asked in a hushed, amazed voice.

"This Dwarf is," Galadriel answered him, in a tone of deep satisfaction.

Hands reached out and caught mooring lines. Ropes were made fast, paddles were shipped, and the tiny craft, which had sailed from one world to another, lay steady while her crew disembarked, the one, tall and untouched by age, aiding the other, who was grizzled and grey and compact with years.

"Welcome, Legolas!" Gandalf said, clapping one hand around an Elvish forearm and the other, a Dwarvish one. "Welcome, Gimli!"

"Mithrandir," Legolas said, his face alight with joy.

"I never thought to see you again, Gandalf," Gimli said, his voice strong and steady as Frodo remembered it. "Nor either of you!" he cried, at sight of Frodo and Sam. "Oh!" He bowed suddenly and, Frodo feared, rather precariously.

"Rise, Elf-friend Gimli," Galadriel said, stepping out of Gandalf's shadow.

"My Lady," Gimli said, abashed. "I am quite overcome."

She smiled gently at him. "You must be weary from your travels. Come with us to the inn, where you will find refreshment and rest before continuing your journey to your new home."

The Dwarf's ancient eyes were round with delight. Legolas laughed out loud. "Come, my friend. You would not make the Lady wait?"

They sat together at the end of a long table, Gimli and Legolas, Frodo and Sam, Gandalf, Elrond, and Galadriel. Others looked on and saw to it that their plates were heaped high and their glasses brimming. Gimli seemed astounded by everything, including Frodo and Sam, and remarked several times that they had cheated old age. Legolas kept a watchful eye on his friend, Frodo noted, and seemed watchful in other ways as well. The hobbits, who until now had been the center of interest wherever they went, were ignored for the first time in favor of a Dwarf in the Blessed Realm. It seemed to shock and amaze the Elves, yet there seemed to be no outrage or dismay. Upon recognizing this, Frodo began to relax, and realized that Legolas also was letting down his guard and possibly for the same reason.

As they finished their refreshment, it was clear that Gimli was tiring; but when he was offered a room in which to rest for the journey, he refused with all courtesy. A cart, too, was turned down: a horse, he declared, that might bear two would suit him well.

Frodo and Sam, who would not have turned down a few hours of sleep, nevertheless mounted for the return ride with good humor, and determined to say nothing of their discomfort throughout the long ride back. Gimli, Frodo saw, drowsed against his friend's lanky form, arms thrown about his middle, stubby hands grasped in one lean one at Legolas's belt. For his part, Legolas directed his horse down the straightest part of the road and somehow avoided every dip and awkward rise.

Galadriel and the other Elves sang as they journeyed. Soothed by their silken voices, Frodo and Sam rode half-dreaming. At one point, Frodo heard Gandalf speak a few quiet words to Rocaran and for a while the horse followed his lead, allowing the hobbits to drowse unconcerned in the growing warmth of the day. But mid-afternoon, somewhat restored, they took greater interest in their companions and their surroundings, and were revived enough to sing a few songs of their own, some of which made the Elves laugh.

Having come this way only recently, Frodo recognized landmarks and began to gauge the remaining distance to Elrond's house. Compared to the breakneck speed of their ride the night before, they were progressing now at little more than a walk. It would, he decided, take them the rest of the day and all of the night at this rate. Gimli's color improved as they climbed the hills, and he began, too, to exhibit more liveliness. Frodo smiled as the Dwarf surveyed their surroundings with huge eyes—though only when they—rarely—strayed from the Lady Galadriel, who sat astride her mount at the head of their party.

"You're not dreaming," Sam said with a laugh.

"There you're wrong, Master Gamgee," Gimli responded with a knowing grin of his own. "This could only be a dream."

Night overcame them near the foot of the mountain and remained their companion until they reached the meadows southeast of Elrond's house. There the Sun rose above the trees and lit their way the last hours of their journey. A great number of people awaited them, ready to take their things and to tend to their horses, and Frodo and Sam especially were glad of their kindness. The travelers were herded into the Great Hall to be served a huge breakfast. Though they were fairly faint from lack of sleep, Frodo and Sam delved in with the rest. Then they bade Gimli and Legolas good morning and staggered across the courtyard to their own apartments and tumbled gratefully into their beds.

Late in the afternoon, Ellhach wakened them. Not surprisingly, a feast had been arranged for that evening in the great hall. Frodo and Sam yawned and washed their faces and attired themselves in suitably formal clothing. Singing emanated from the open windows as the hobbits crossed the courtyard. Gandalf greeted them at the door, murmuring something about their sleeping the day away, and then walked with them to the head of the table. There Legolas sat alongside Gimli amid a sea of Elves; opposite them were two empty chairs for Frodo and Sam. Gimli seemed relieved to see them, a vaguely hunted look in his eyes.

"I am very glad to see you two," the Dwarf said. "I do not feel so different now."

Gandalf took a seat beside Gimli. Smiling down at him, he said, "We are all different, Gimli. Each in his own way. Regardless of your particular differences, you are very welcome here."

Gimli cast an uncomfortable glance round the room. "I accept your words, Gandalf, for I know you do not lie. But it is rather awkward to be a Dwarf alone among Elves."

"But here you are," Sam pointed out.

"And we are very pleased to see you," Frodo said sincerely. "I—I do not mean to offend, Gimli, but how is it you are come?"

Gimli's head bobbed comprehendingly. "It is a question I have asked myself. And perhaps the answer is this: having allowed you lot in, they decided to let the remaining rabble follow."

Sam gave a snort of laughter. Gimli grinned broadly back at him. "In truth, Master Baggins," he went on, "I do not know. When my young friend here suggested it, I told him he was mad. Not that he would listen."

Legolas raised his brows. "He makes short a discussion that lasted several months."

To the hobbits, Gimli said, "You at least understand my misgivings. I am no Ring-bearer, and the lack of trust between Elves and Dwarves is a well-established tradition."

"No longer," Legolas asserted.

Gimli's fond gaze rested a moment on his friend. "No longer. Yet I had reason to doubt. Even Dwarves know of the ban of the Valar to all save Elves in the Western Lands. He would not listen to me, but promised to build a great ship to carry us over sea—"

"A 'grey' ship is what I promised," said Legolas.

"Grey it was," Gimli agreed with a shudder, "and by no stretch of the imagination 'great.'"

"It was sound enough for the journey."

"Aye." Gimli's old eyes widened. "But very small." He laughed. "I quibble. My dear Legolas more than made up for the seaman that I am not. A rare journey it was, but one I confess I little enjoyed."

Legolas drank from his goblet and swallowed, a serene smile curving his lips. "He could not be convinced that welcome lay at its end."

"Indeed." Gimli raised his goblet toward his friend. "I spent many a queasy moment contemplating the swim back." He took a long, satisfied swallow. "But here we are, and it seems we were expected. None have looked ill at me or treated me with less than the utmost courtesy and kindness."

"As you have earned, Master Dwarf," said Gandalf.

"You must be very persuasive," Frodo said to Legolas, "to talk a Dwarf into leaving Middle-earth."

"She was my persuasion," Legolas said, inclining his head toward the Lady Galadriel, who at that moment entered the room.

"Ah," Gimli whispered. "There she is. I never dared dream that I might behold her again. And here she comes amongst us."

She and her daughter were escorted by Elrond. He brought them to the head of the table and saw to their seating before taking his own chair. Enraptured, Gimli forgot his goblet and the food placed before him until the Lady smiled upon him and bade him continue.

Frodo observed that the novelty of Galadriel's presence was waning among the frequenters of Elrond's Hall. The assembly of Elves attended to their own acquaintances, and soon the great room was filled with voices raised in debate and discussion. Elrond quizzed Legolas on the construction of his vessel and details of their journey. They ate and drank and the hours melted away. As the evening wore on, the conversation at last began to ebb, producing a comfortable stillness into which Galadriel spoke.

"Tell me, Gimli," she gently commanded, "of my granddaughter Arwen."

The request made Gimli hesitate, but not, Frodo saw, because he was overwhelmed by being addressed by the object of his worship, for they had conversed frequently throughout the evening. The Dwarf cast a quick, significant look at Legolas and Gandalf, and then replied. "The King, her husband, took the gift of Men." He waited for the import of this to sink in before continuing, "Queen Arwen was much grieved. She—" he faltered.

"She went to Cerin Amroth to lie upon the green grass amidst the niphredil and elanor," Legolas said softly. "She would that none accompany her save her chief handmaiden. We pleaded to attend her on that final journey, but she would not abide it. We honored her decision, and she and her lady-in-waiting rode out without us. Her lady returned alone."

Celebrían, white-faced, hissed, "My daughter is dead?"

"My Lady Celebrían," Legolas said evenly, "it is so."

Elrond took her hand in his and held it tightly. Galadriel closed her eyes, her lashes lying like tiny wings on her pale cheeks. She remained still for several moments, as if listening to a far-away voice. When she looked up, there was a deep, deep sadness in the pools of her eyes. "We knew it must come to this," she pronounced. "It was her choice."

Frodo's throat was tight and his eyes were burning. His hand met Sam's under the table and he gripped it as if he would never let it go.

"She was a great queen," Sam said, his voice unsteady with emotion. "Very kind to me and my family."

From the corner of his eye, Frodo saw a tear fall from Sam's cheek onto the table. He bit his lip and strengthened his hold.

"I am sorry to bring such news," Gimli said heavily. "The Queen was greatly loved and admired by her people, and she loved them well in return. But there was none ever to compare to Aragorn. She did not let him go unchallenged."

"Years must yet have been left to him," Celebrían said with some bitterness. "Why did he—?"

"He would not wither before his people," Legolas said. "He did not make an end of his years heedlessly."

"No," Elrond agreed heavily. "He must have considered it long before taking that decision."

Some Elves began to sing, their voices sweetly sad in yet another hauntingly mournful ballad. Frodo, his head bowed, tried inconspicuously to wipe his eyes. Beside him, he heard Sam snuffle.

"It is grievous news you bring us, Gimli," Galadriel said to the Dwarf, whose face was drawn with grief of his own.

"My Lady." Gimli's voice broke, and he stared unhappily down at the table.

"In the days to come," she said, "you will tell us of all of the deeds of King Elessar and Queen Arwen. You will remind us that there was joy before the sadness. Will you do this, Gimli?"

Eyes shining with tears, Gimli nodded. "I will."

"Forgive us," Elrond said, rising. He held out his arm to Celebrían, who looked as though she had taken a blow. As she slowly stood beside him, Elrond said, "This is your home now, and you are at leave to come and go as you like. We honor your presence."

All at the table rose and performed the proper courtesies as Elrond and Celebrían left the hall. Galadriel smiled at Gimli and stood also. Gandalf joined her, and they walked together into the adjoining corridor.

Gimli seemed to deflate. He pawed the wetness from his face and turned an agonized look on his friend. Legolas patted him on the shoulder. "It could be delayed no longer," he said. A faint, reassuring smile touched his face. "Remember that there are many happy tales to share."

The Dwarf nodded. "Not as many as I might have wished."

"So it is with mortals," Legolas gently chided, and Frodo had the impression this was a friendly debate they had had before. "Time for your rest, old friend."

Others, undoubtedly sensitive to the change in mood at the head table, were also leaving, though the mournful song continued. Frodo and Sam went with them to the end of the hall, and there said good night. As they turned toward the door, Gimli roused. "I have some few things for you," he said. "From Aragorn. May I visit tomorrow?"

"Please!" Frodo said earnestly. "You need not knock. Sleep well, Gimli."

In their own apartments, settled in their comfortable chairs before the fire, with mugs of tea at hand, the two hobbits sat staring into the flames. Frodo said thoughtfully, "What is the world coming to, Sam? First hobbits and now a Dwarf in the Undying Lands."

"I can't say, Mr. Frodo."

"An ages-long ban against mortals, overturned only now."

"Perhaps," Sam ventured, "any of the Fellowship would have found welcome here."

"Even Men?"

"Men such as Aragorn, leastways."

The fire crackled, and embers shot high into the chamber of the hearth. "I wonder sometimes," Frodo remarked quietly, "if we are in a dream. If I am in a dream. And if, when I wake—"

"If it's a dream," Sam interrupted in a firm voice, "then it is a shared one. I don't really fancy that idea, nor the one in which I'm just one of your night phantoms." He turned to Frodo with a fierce expression on his face. "Shall I pinch you, Frodo, to ease your mind?"

At this show of resolve, Frodo smiled. "I should prefer a clasp of the hand, Sam." He emptied his mug and climbed to his feet, yawning and stretching. "Come, my philosopher." He reached out. "There will be more news for us, along with Gimli's tokens from Aragorn."

Sam accepted the assistance. When they stood side by side, he said seriously, "It will not likely be happy news."

A shadow of despair touched Frodo's features. He raised his chin. "We know what the news must be," he said. "Why must the hearing of it cause even greater hurt?"

Sam sighed. "Perhaps it shouldn't." He closed an arm round Frodo's shoulders. "But it will."

Frodo nodded. "I am being foolish. Forgive me." 

Sam shook his head. "A little sleep will help." He brushed Frodo's cheek with his knuckles and released him.

They went to their separate rooms. Before long, Frodo could hear the sounds of a hobbit settling into his bed, and soon thereafter, the quiet rumble of peaceful snores. Frodo, however, lay awake through the early hours of the night, never knowing when he fell asleep.

In the morning, he woke to delightful kitchen smells. He rose sluggishly, and took his time about the morning ritual. When he came into the kitchen, sleepy-eyed and smothering a yawn, Sam turned from the plates he was heaping with eggs and bacon, cheese and potatoes, biscuits and sweetcakes, set down his burdens, and took Frodo's arm.

"I overslept," Frodo apologized, sitting where Sam directed him. A mug of tea was placed before him, a potently brewed mug of tea, the very scent of which was bracing. With the first few sips and bites, Frodo began to revive.

"Still catching up, I warrant," Sam suggested.

"Yet you look spry enough!"

Sam sat back, his plate wiped clean. "I was hungry." He grinned sheepishly.

They lingered over their tea until Frodo said, "It's time I returned to my writing, I think."

"And I've a patch of garden wants weeding."

Frodo smiled. Nothing in Valinor counted as a "weed," and certainly none grew in the gardens outside their apartments. "Right. Let's see to the washing-up, first, and we'll go our separate ways."

Sam protested, but without fervor. Frodo knew that his company was enjoyed, and he would never tire of Sam. It was only a month since his friend had come over sea, and there were still times when Frodo could scarcely believe it.

"I'll be in the study if you need me," he said, hanging the damp cloth from a hook near the opening of the hearth.

Settled in his chair, a mug of mild ale at his elbow, Frodo read through the last several pages that he had written. There were a few rough passages, which he circled, and a few questionable structures, which he underlined. Some days had passed since he had added anything, and it took him a moment to frame his thoughts. Once engaged, he lost all sense of his surroundings, once more an inhabitant of Middle-earth.

Sam crept in mid-morning and left a plate of treats, and then crept away again, shushing Frodo of his thanks as he went. As the day lengthened, the study grew warmer. A large bee came in through the window, buzzing uncomfortably near Frodo's ear before blundering back out again. Frodo tracked it with his eyes as it went, losing it in the dense foliage encroaching on the opening on either side. The quiet sounds of Sam's humming, his movements amidst the first tiny leaves of the flowers, the distant tones of Elves singing, the clop of a horse passing through the courtyard, and the soft rush of a breeze lulled Frodo into a quiet state. He closed his eyes and imagined he was back in the Shire. Bag End, in his day, had been off the main paths, but there had always been children playing farther down The Hill, and, like today, Sam's friendly conversations with himself mingled with his unobtrusive tunefulness coming in through windows open to warm summer air.

Less than a year had gone by since he had left the Shire, but it seemed immeasurably far away and improbable, like a dream of found riches. Valinor was a place of beauty greater than any in Middle-earth. In comparison, the Shire was charming in a way that pleased rather than awed, that warmed rather than impressed, that welcomed rather than accommodated. It represented all that was "home" to Frodo, and he realized quite suddenly that he would always be a hobbit in the Land of the Elves. The thought was not an emotional one, simply one of total realization—as if he had at last seen in its entirety the dream bird he had glimpsed in Valmar. He would never belong here as he had the Shire; but just as Bilbo had made Rivendell his home, Frodo would live out his days in Valinor. If there was a residual nostalgia that would never completely fade, neither would it overcome his gratitude to the Valar—and especially Gandalf—for granting him a chance to heal and be at peace.

He was wakened from his ruminations by Ellhach, who peeked into the study. "I have brought your mid-day meal;" the Elf said, "sufficient for you and your guests, Legolas and his friend the Dwarf."

"You've met them, haven't you?" Frodo asked, capping his ink bottle and folding the book shut.

"Legolas, yes. Many years ago. His friend, no."

Responding to something in the Elf's tone of voice, Frodo asked unthinkingly, "Do you dislike Dwarves, Ellhach?"

"There are no creatures that I dislike save orcs, and none of that kind are here to offend me. But I am bemused that a Dwarf has been permitted into the Land of the Valar."

"Yet you tolerate hobbits reasonably well. Can it be so different with Dwarves?"

"The Elves have no long, unhappy memories of hobbits," Ellhach replied without any particular emphasis.

"The Lady Galadriel herself has welcomed Gimli," Frodo said. "He alone of his people aided the Fellowship in defeating Sauron."

"I know of his deeds, Frodo," said Ellhach, with the softest hint of reproval. "I revere him as I do all who gave of themselves in that noble fight. But I do not know him."

"I hope you will allow me to present him to you."

"I ask it of you," Ellhach said. He gestured at the book on Frodo's table. "You have taken up your writing again."

"Yes. And I have many questions for you. It was hard enough in my own language; in yours, I am like a child. Perhaps you will spare me a few minutes when you can."

"With pleasure," the Elf assured him, and the warmth of his tone persuaded Frodo that he was not merely being polite.

"Mr. Frodo!" Sam called from the sitting room. "We have guests."

Ellhach accompanied Frodo down the corridor. He greeted Legolas with deference and met Gimli with all proper courtesy. And then he wished them a pleasant visit and excused himself.

Legolas's brows were perfectly arched when he turned to Frodo after Ellhach had gone. "You have a princely servant, Frodo."

"So I've been told," Frodo said, strangely chagrined. "I did not ask it of him, you know."

"It is by his choice, I've no doubt, or he would certainly do otherwise," Legolas said. "There is a tale there?"

Frodo shrugged.

Sensitive to Frodo's apparent reluctance, Legolas said, "Another time, perhaps?"

"Enough discussion," Gimli groused. "I'm famished."

They sat at the wide table in the kitchen, the homeliest room in their apartments, and ate heartily, while Frodo and Sam sounded out the newcomers' thoughts on their new land. Gimli had noted the precious stones embedded in roads and structures wherever they went, but said they compared not at all with the glory of Galadriel.

"He remains besotted," Legolas observed affectionately.

"How could I not?" Gimli countered. He heaved a great sigh, and set his emptied goblet on the table. "Beholding her fairness once more is greater wealth than I ever aspired to."

"Tell us about Aragorn," Sam petitioned, refilling the Dwarf's goblet. "Tell us about Minas Tirith and Gondor. Did you finish the mithril gates?"

Gimli stared a long moment down at the table. Legolas watched him, gravely somber. "It is in its prime, Minas Tirith," Gimli said at last. "But the gates will stand longer than the city."

"Mithril?" Frodo echoed.

"Aye. Something not even Sauron reborn could destroy." Gimli held the goblet between thumb and forefinger and slowly rotated it where it stood. "But he is gone forever and peace dwells now in Middle-earth."

"You sound disappointed," Sam said wryly.

Gimli gave him a sharp look. And then he smiled, very faintly. "I am not disappointed, Master Gamgee. But I do not relish the changing of so many things. I miss my friend, the King."

"He must have been more than two hundred years old," Frodo mused.

"But young for his kind," said Legolas, "to take the gift."

The fire spat sharply in the hearth, the only sound in the room.

"I miss him, too," Frodo said plaintively. "Please tell me about him. About his deeds after I departed."

Gimli's sad eyes gazed across at him. And then he proceeded to tell Frodo all about the works of King Elessar Telcontar. The first years following the destruction of the Ring had been riven with strife, commanding his care and close attention. About the time that Frodo was sailing to Valinor, the surviving orcs and men who opposed him had either been destroyed or subdued. Orc sightings became extremely rare and rarely benefited the discovered orc. "He became a family man," Gimli said, shaking his head with lingering disbelief. "All those little girls squealing and giggling." His tired face folded into amused wrinkles. "They were more wearing for him than a thousand Saurons."

"He exaggerates," Legolas laughed. "But not by much."

"And then his son Eldarion was born. And he was the image of his father." Gimli's smile faded. "He did not wish to take the throne, when his father proposed it. Too soon, he said. Indeed, he added his protest to his mother's. But Aragorn was always a stubborn man."

"He felt it was his time," Legolas remarked, and in his soft voice was a faint undertone of bitterness. "He made his farewells. With the Queen at his side, he died."

After a moment, Frodo asked, "Is he a good king, Eldarion?"

"He is Aragorn's son," Gimli said. "He will never be his father, but he shares his father's love of Gondor, its people and its lands." His expression lightened a little and he looked pointedly into Frodo's eyes. "Including the Shire. He will honor Aragorn's edicts regarding the Little People and their lands."

"Is there still a Frodo at Bag End?" Sam asked.

Gimli gave his head a shake. "Another in the line of Gardners: Andwise, his name is. You know, it is a strange thing, but there are many more Frodos in Gondor than in the Shire. But then, you are revered in Gondor," Gimli said to Frodo, "and little thought of in your own country."

"Gimli," Legolas murmured.

But Frodo only smiled. "It's all right. I have not forgotten the ways of hobbits. They prefer genuine heroes and those who look heroic." He bit his lip. "I know—I know they must be dead, but can you tell me anything of my cousins, Merry and Pippin?"

Gimli produced an even more elaborate sigh, his expression one of remembered mourning somehow mingled with exasperation. "Aye, they are dead, the rascals, long dead. Yet still it grieves me to say so."

To hear the words bluntly spoken brought Frodo to the edge of tears. He mastered himself and asked, "When?"

"No more than a ten-year after Master Gamgee sailed. King Éomer was ailing in—what?—the year 64, 65, Legolas?"

"65."

"Yes, that's right, 65. He summoned the Master of Buckland to the Golden Hall. He and his consort in mayhem, the Thain—your cousin Pippin—hastened their sons' inheritances and rode out from the Shire together. Dear Éomer, my old friend, died that autumn before the leaves had quite turned brown. Aragorn came to honor him, and when he returned to the White City, Merry and Pippin rode with him." Gimli's mouth relaxed in a faint smile. "I saw them there many times, escorted them once through the Caves at Aglarond. They preferred trees, like my young friend here." He shook his head, as if there was no explaining the likings of others. "Even grey and wrinkled, they found occasion for mischief. The scamps." He shook his head again, and the mirth faded from his face. "A few years later—75, Legolas?—yes, it was in 75—Master Brandybuck took ill with a fever. He did not recover, and breathed his last as the first snow fell. Pippin put on a good face—it was in his nature to be of good cheer—and he loved telling Aragorn's children hair-raising tales. But he followed his cousin the next spring." Gimli cleared his voice, and when he spoke his words were steady—but Frodo saw the glint of tears in his old eyes. "The King commanded that they be laid on either side of him in the House of Kings. And so they were."

Frodo bit his lower lip. "That would have pleased them," he managed in a whisper.

"What of Prince Faramir?" Sam asked, and Frodo heard the tremor in his carefully spoken words.

"Alas," Gimli sighed, "he too is dead."

"But he was young," Frodo objected, "and the old blood was in him."

"He grieved greatly for his lady Éowyn when she died," Legolas said. "He lost heart." He regarded Frodo with compassion. "It must be painful for you, our unhappy news; for only a short time has passed here."

"Not even a year," Frodo said abjectly.

"You were ever on Aragorn's mind," Legolas said, "even at the end. He asked that we bring you this. He believed it would give you joy." Frodo had not noticed the packet resting at Gimli's feet. Legolas lifted it up now and laid it on the table near Frodo's elbow.

"Is that—?" Sam began.

"Yes. 'Southern Star,' as it was known in the Shire," Gimli inserted. "It has taken magnificently to the fields bordering the River."

Frodo laughed out loud. "Pipe-weed, in Gondor?"

"Aragorn named it Shireherb—something to do with your cousin Merry, who wrote rather extensively about it."

"Well, then." Frodo began to pick at the wrapping round the King's seal; the seal itself he would take care to preserve. "Do you have your pipe with you, Gimli?"

"Always!"

They went out into the garden and there Frodo, Sam, and Gimli filled their pipes and lit them. While they smoked, Legolas stood a short distance away, his hair pouring down his back as he stared up at the stars that had begun to appear. Afternoon had melted into evening without Frodo's having noticed.

"It's a little different," Frodo decided, following a heavy draw on the stem.

"Better or worse?" Gimli asked.

"More regal," Sam said, and the hobbits laughed.

"I shall not take more." Smoke wreathed Gimli's head. "For I have a packet of my own."

"Do not hoard it," Frodo advised. "Sam has planted a field with seeds he brought with him."

"If it takes," Sam added, "there will be plenty for all of us."

"Hobbits will be the ruin of Valinor," Legolas observed dryly.

Much later, after Legolas and Gimli had returned to their rooms, Frodo and Sam sat before the fire in their sitting room, their mugs empty, their pipes scraped clean. Sam was asleep, slumped in his chair, his feet sprawled apart in a wide V on the footrest, his snores soft and steady.

The flames were reflected in Frodo's eyes, though he did not see them, his inner vision turned upon Merry and Pippin as he had last seen _them_. It was cruelly hurtful to imagine them dead, lying in stately fashion alongside the king whom they had cherished. Cruel to think of Aragorn and Arwen, Faramir and Éowyn, even Éomer, whom he had met only briefly, as removed from the paths of the world. He had not anticipated this when he had stepped aboard the White Ship. He had believed then that he was leaving Middle-earth and all her peoples behind, never to be seen or heard from again. He had not expected to outlive those he had loved.

Yet here was Sam—for a moment Frodo studied his beloved friend, filled with surpassing affection—still youthful in appearance, but old in years. Was he, in his heart, weary of life? If it were not for Frodo, would he choose to descend into the final long sleep? And, why in truth, was Frodo still alive? He had come to Valinor to heal, and his healing had been accomplished. He no longer craved the Ring, no longer suffered the wounds of the Witch King's blade, or Shelob's sting, least of all Gollum's teeth. What purpose could a hobbit have here?

He closed his eyes against a sudden rush of tears—perhaps the same ones that had been denied while he had heard the news of his cousins. They wet his lashes and cheeks and spilled onto his fingers where they lay folded together on his chest.

"Mr. Frodo, what is it? What's amiss?" Sam went down on his heels in front of him, and took Frodo's hands in both of his.

"Dear Sam," Frodo said, "I thought you were asleep."

"Just letting my supper have a nap. Now you tell your old Sam—I am older than you now, you know—what's on your mind."

"Oh, Sam." Frodo yielded to the deep concern in his friend's face. "They're all dead. All my kin, all our friends, all the great ones. Your family—" He caught himself and was instantly contrite. "Forgive me."

But Sam was all sympathy. "It was hard news, what Gimli brought."

"Hard indeed." Sam _was_ older than he now, at least in years, and perhaps it was something of his calm, mature manner that inclined Frodo to speak his heart. "Perhaps I should have followed Bilbo."

A shadow crossed Sam's features, but he only tightened his grip and said, "It was too soon, Mr. Frodo. Not your time." He gave Frodo's hands a slight shake. "When the time comes, when you're certain—truly certain—we will go together."

"Sam, you've been here scarcely half a year."

Mildly mocking, as though speaking to a too-earnest child, Sam said, "And I'm here only because of you, Frodo. When you go, so shall I."

"That's not fair, Sam."

"There isn't much that's fair in the world, Mr. Frodo; not that way, leastways. Was it fair when you had to leave home just to keep body and mind together?" he asked with a hint of anger. "Was it fair that you had to leave everyone who loved you and the home you'd known all your life?" He kissed the backs of Frodo's hands and pushed himself upright. "It's just the way it is."

Humbled, Frodo whispered, "My dear Sam."

Sam twitched his handkerchief from his pocket and handed it to Frodo. As Frodo mopped his eyes, Sam added, "But if you can work your way round to it, perhaps you can wait a little. It would be a joy seeing the nasturtians bloom."

Frodo gave a small, helpless laugh. "I could probably wait that long."

Sam was quiet a moment before noting wistfully, "And there's the snapdragons, you know. They come a little later. Not much, just a little. And my roses—I should love to see what blooms."

Frodo's smile began to widen. "You haven't mentioned the sunflowers."

"Well, you know when the sunflowers bloom, Frodo. They come last of all; the end of summer. Can you wait till then?"

Despite himself Frodo gave up his somberness altogether. "You are a wretch, Samwise Gamgee."

There was a poignance in Sam's answering grin. "Don't go before your time, Frodo," he said quietly. "I've seen a lifetime of springs and winters—good years mostly. But even those that weren't were worth having."

Frodo exhaled sharply. "You shame me, Sam."

"I don't mean to. It's just, hearing you talk like that—I'll do anything to keep you whole and happy." All at once his self-assured façade cracked, and he looked vulnerable and uncertain, much as Frodo had known him, seemingly ages ago. "I used to worry," he said, "that something might happen to you here. I had to trust Gandalf; I had to trust that he would look after you, even though—"

His voice equally hushed, Frodo prompted, "Even though what, Sam?"

"Well, it's silly now. But do you remember what we called the sea when we were little 'uns?"

Frodo sat quite still for a moment. Then: "I'd forgotten." He nodded his understanding. "That was a long time ago, before I knew Bilbo. Before I knew better."

Sam whispered, "We called it Death, the sea. I had to know for certain that it wasn't. Or if it was, I was bound to follow you there."

Frodo stood and wrapped an arm round Sam's shoulders. "In a way, I suppose it is—at least for those who live in the Shire. You and I will never return. To them, we are dead."

Sam leaned in to him and Frodo hugged him close. "But here we have a few years left to us," Sam said. He gazed appealingly up into Frodo's eyes. "Here, the choice is ours."

Frodo released a long breath. "All right," he conceded, and kissed Sam's forehead. "All right." He began to lead him down the corridor to his room. Outside the door, he murmured, "How is it you forgot to mention the first crops of pipe-weed?"

Sam's startled snort echoed in all the corners of the house. "I did, didn't I?" he said, abashed. "But I'm glad you've remembered it, for now I'll hold you to that as well. It's a year or two on, that is."

Frodo held him near again, grateful for Sam's strength and his practicality, but most of all for his great love. "Good night, my dear Sam. Sleep well."

"And you, Frodo."

* * *

In the days that followed, the hobbits took it upon themselves to acquaint Legolas and Gimli with their new home. Despite his vast years, the Dwarf remained strong-willed and determined not to be left out of things. Legolas kept a protective eye on him, and never left him for long, even when Gimli was settled in the hobbits' sitting room, sharing a smoke.

Frodo's writing was abandoned as over the next weeks he and Sam, and often Gandalf, took their friends round Tol Eressëa. The Dwarf was an object of fascination for the Elves, some of whom had never seen one of his kind. Yet the fact of his presence—and the precedent of the hobbits in Valinor—ensured that awkward situations rarely arose and such as there were, were easily overcome by Legolas as one of their own.

A few weeks passed, and Gimli became, by invitation, a frequent visitor to the glade where Galadriel kept her loom. A special chair appeared his first day there, and one of the Lady's attendants told him that it was his to use whenever he visited, and he was invited to visit whenever he wished. Quite overwhelmed, he had settled in it with great dignity and greater gratitude. In the days and weeks to come, he would compose himself and listen to the Lady sing, seldom venturing words in the silence, and then only if she spoke first. At such times Legolas occasionally would leave him and venture farther about the isle on his own, and then only for a few hours. Often Frodo and Sam would join the Dwarf, and sometimes Celebrían would appear, though at first she said little and remained conspicuously detached. Yet she seemed to find Gimli of special interest, and eventually her desire to know more of her daughter's life in Middle-earth overcame her reticence. Before long, Gimli's great love for her mother and her daughter united them in a common bond.

The nasturtians bloomed in a rainbow of colors and were soon followed by the snapdragons, bright red and orange. Sam often pottered in the gardens—they had quickly become his—sometimes with Frodo alongside, sometimes merely accompanied by him as Frodo continued his writing on a small table placed beside the bench.

Spring gradually warmed again into summer; the days lengthened and the skies grew less hazy. One evening as a thunderstorm roared outside, Frodo stood staring out the kitchen window, watching lightning streak across the blackened sky and waiting for the house-shaking thunder that would follow. Behind him Sam finished heating their supper while Gandalf sat at his leisure at the long table, reading through the last pages of Frodo's tale of the Ring. Ellhach had helped him with the rough sections and suggested alterations for correct usage or better word choices, which Frodo had painstakingly incorporated. He had completed it that morning, and now was prepared to be done with it altogether.

A slight movement caught his eye: Gandalf was muttering approvingly to himself. The wizard raised his head, a pleased smile on his lips.

"What do you think?" Frodo asked.

"He thinks it's perfect, don't you, Mr. Gandalf," Sam said, ladling stew into bowls.

"I can answer for myself, Samwise, thank you." Gandalf shifted the pages so that Sam could set a wizard-sized bowl in front of him. "But he's right, of course. Or close to it. Your Elvish is remarkably good."

"Thanks to Ellhach."

"You and Sam speaking only Elvish occasionally has probably helped," Gandalf pointed out. "As to the tale itself, it is as I remember it in all respects, as I witnessed it myself or as it was reported to me. A capital job, Frodo." His eyes glimmered. "Now you will have to read it in Elrond's hall."

"Oh, Gandalf, no!"

The wizard laughed. "You've told it in pieces up till now. Surely reading it will be less painful?"

Frodo grumbled, "I had hoped to hand it over to Elrond for his library."

"And direct those with questions to read it?"

"Well," Sam said, sitting down and breaking open a short, crusty loaf of bread, "wasn't that the purpose of his writing it?"

Gandalf raised his brows. "Was it, Frodo?"

"In the main." He went to the bench and sat beside Sam, who handed him the other half of his loaf. Frodo poked a spoon into his bowl and stirred the contents, a plume of steam rising from the center. "Sam's read it, too. It's less long-winded than my first writing of it, which the Elves should be grateful for."

"Keeps to the particulars," Sam agreed.

Shooting him a sideways grin, Frodo said, "But otherwise I have left nothing out, nor changed anything, nor tried to improve my part."

"Or anyone else's," said Sam with emphasis.

"And with good reason," Gandalf said, satisfied. "Well done, Frodo. I expect it will take you no more than a year of weekly readings in Elrond's hall."

Frodo grimly spooned stew into his mouth. He growled, "We'll see." Sam quietly laughed.

* * *

What Sam called the Thunder Moon swelled until, on a hot night of black skies, it broke through the clouds and brought a light like dawn to the darkness. The hobbits were sitting in their garden, joined by Gimli, Legolas, and Gandalf, all enjoying their pipes. The air was still heavy and damp and there was a tension in the air that spoke of storms later to come.

Gandalf exhaled a great plume of smoke. As it drifted slowly outward, it formed into a complicated structure. Sam tilted his head and studied it; Frodo raised his brows. Gimli said with certainty, "Minas Tirith."

"Ah!" Sam purled. "I see it now."

"Surely not," Frodo objected. "That's Minas Mor—Minas Ithil, surely? The way the walls bend outward rather than upward."

"I agree with Frodo," Legolas voted.

"Gandalf?" Sam prodded.

"In fact, it is the Hall of Ilmarin," Gandalf said crushingly. "You ought to remember it, Frodo."

"Most of what I remember was a dream of your making," Frodo countered tartly. "And the detail might have been clearer."

Gandalf snorted. "I shall strive for precision, next time." Serenely he began to inhale, but all at once stopped. He raised his head and turned toward the east.

"What is it?" Gimli asked, hushed. All of them watched Gandalf with great curiosity.

The wizard smiled faintly. "A ship is coming."

The hobbits exchanged quick glances.

Gandalf set his pipe in the receptacle and stood. "Do you wish to meet it?"

Lips pursed, Frodo murmured, "It's a long night's journey."

"Gimli," Legolas said, "do you wish to go?"

"I'll stay here, my friend," Gimli replied, sedately. "You go. Perhaps other friends of yours are coming."

"Would it be ungracious for us to remain here with Gimli?" Sam asked. "Or just me, if—"

"I should prefer to stay as well, unless—"

"Not at all," Gandalf interrupted Frodo. He gave him a knowing, very vague waggle of brows. "Come, then, Legolas. Fetch your mount and mine. We must ride quickly."

The three companions finished their pipes as a distinctly Elvish hubbub arose and the courtyard flared with light. Horses' hooves clattered on the stone of the courtyard as they flew from the stables to the mountain road. The embers of Gandalf's ash were barely cool before quiet descended once more and the lamps were snuffed. Overhead the clouds knit together again, blocking out the moon, and the darkness of the night was once more complete.

The air grew thick and ponderous. A dull rumble came from the western shoulder of the mountain and brief flashes of light began to flare in the far heavens. Sam collected their smoking things, and Frodo, their mugs and tray. When, a few minutes later, they headed indoors, Gimli sauntered along behind.

They settled in the sitting room, Sam providing fresh mugs of ale and salted breads. When Sam had taken his favorite chair, and his pipe was drawing to his satisfaction, Frodo began to translate aloud a book from Elrond's library. Gimli occupied himself with his latest project, a small toy worked of metal. Sam, listening to Frodo's reading, nevertheless watched Gimli's efforts with obvious fascination. The blunt fingers produced delicately beautiful objects that spun or staggered or hopped; but he would take no praise for his skill, replying always that his real talent lay in shaping stone.

Some time later, when Gimli made noises about returning to his apartment, Frodo offered him a bed, and when Gimli accepted, gave him his. He bunked with Sam, thinking fondly that it would be one night when Sam would not need to silently creep into Frodo's room, as he often did, apparently to assure himself that Frodo still breathed, was no phantom, had not changed into a pillow—or whatever his occasional nocturnal visits satisfied. He never stayed and he made a point of being as quiet as a hobbit on foot could be; but Frodo had been aware of Sam's checking up on him almost from the first instance, which had occurred within the first week of Sam's arrival. Understanding the impulse, Frodo had never mentioned it. Indeed, he took a certain comfort from Sam's protectiveness, unchanged after so many years—on Sam's side—apart.

Storms moved through during the late hours of the night, breaking overhead just before dawn. Frodo was awakened by a searing flash of light accompanied by an immediate crack of thunder. As he rearranged his limbs and plumped the pillow, rain began to pelt down. He lay a few moments listening to the storm's fury. As the downpour turned to run-off, audible in a steady splash on the stones outside the study window, his eyelids grew heavier. Beside him, Sam snuffled and rolled over, and absently patted Frodo's shoulder. At that comforting touch, Frodo closed his eyes and slept once more.

It was dark when Frodo awoke. Sam slept heavily beside him, but Frodo was restive. He slipped from between the covers and padded out of the bedroom, silently closing the door behind him. As he tied the belt of his robe, he noticed that there was a light in the kitchen, though he had banked the fire before turning in. Ellhach had gone with the others, so Frodo had not expected any assistance this morning. In the hushed, paling darkness of late night, he found a young Elf quietly and efficiently at work.

"Good morning," Frodo said.

The Elf's dark head rose abruptly. A tense gaze was fixed on Frodo for a long moment. Then he returned to the work already begun. "It is true what is said of hobbits. They are quiet indeed."

"I am Frodo," Frodo introduced himself. "Are you Ellhach's son? You have the look of him."

"I am." The Elf gave the contents of the kettle a final stir and swung the arm of metal over the fire. "I am Lhachir son of Ellhach." He straightened to his full height, which came to only a handful of inches higher than the crown of Frodo's head. Bracing himself with a hand upon the mantle, Lhachir reached for a staff that leant against the stonework beside the hearth.

Before he could stop himself, Frodo gaped. The young Elf was missing the lower stretch of his left leg, from the knee down. Against all logic, he knew suddenly and absolutely how the youth had come to be maimed. Words of condolence or apology, he guessed, would be unwelcome, so he stood uncomfortably silent, unaware that his features stated his feelings more eloquently than words could have done.

Lhachir glanced down at the empty pocket of fabric bound up with a length of ribbon. "I saw them eat it," he said.

Frodo's misery and pity deepened, but still he said nothing.

The Elf went on in the same conversational tone, "But before they could take the other one, something came over them—a kind of madness. My mother and I were spared." He regarded Frodo levelly. "That was because of you."

"I—" Frodo faltered. "It was not—" But Lhachir waved aside his words.

"I have been angry, I have been grateful. It is a nuisance, as you see. But all in all, I prefer not to have been eaten entirely." And then, to Frodo's astonishment, the young Elf grinned. "It will be a while yet before your breakfast is ready. If you mean to linger, I will prepare your tea."

"I thought we should have to fend for ourselves today," Frodo said weakly.

"Not while my father breathes," Lhachir assured him darkly. He gestured toward the table and the bench before it. Frodo sat as directed, though he had rarely felt so uncomfortable. "I have heard you in the Great Hall, reading out of your book."

Frodo turned his gaze to the window as the youth hobbled from rain barrel to water kettle. Yet from the corner of his eye, as he watched, he began to admire the seeming effortlessness of his movements, for it was obvious that Lhachir had long since adjusted to his maiming.

"It was a very great burden, what you carried," Lhachir remarked. "And it is a wonder that it did not defeat you at the outset. My father says that you do not describe the full measure of your strength or courage. I believe that is true also."

"That is high praise coming from you."

Lhachir studied him closely for a moment, almost as though he wondered whether Frodo were making fun. Setting the kettle on the free hook and suspending it over the fire opposite the other kettle, he said, "Perhaps. But your sacrifice must have been very great indeed for you to be here. Your own words, in the telling of the tale, do not deny your bravery—but neither do they honor the greatness of your deeds." He took mugs off the shelf and the teapot from the tray. Setting them on the table, he went on, "Father says you weary of telling the tale." All at once there was something in Lhachir's expression that reminded Frodo of the young, big-eyed hobbits who had sat at Bilbo's feet and listened, entranced, to his tales. "But there is one thing I would hear more of, if you were willing to tell it."

With a nod of his head, Frodo said, "You have but to ask."

The lad's voice dropped, and he whispered, "The great spider—the one called Shelob. Her tunnels. Her fangs. Her terrible stinger. Will you tell me more about that?"

The riders returned mid-day. The hobbits and Gimli were sitting on their bench overlooking the courtyard when, amidst a great rumble of hooves and the billowing of cloaks, the Elves rode in. There were many newcomers. As they dismounted, members of Elrond's household appeared to lead them into his hall; their horses were taken away sweaty and tired to the stables.

Gimli, watching, produced a soft grunt. A moment later it turned to an equally soft, but far more friendly murmur, when a familiar Elf broke away from the others and strode across the lawn toward them.

"Welcome back, Legolas," Sam said.

"And who have you brought with you?" Gimli demanded.

The Elf sank onto the bench beside him. "Celeborn and his sons, among others."

"His sons?" Frodo asked.

Legolas looked curiously at him. "That surprises you?"

"I thought—well, I thought they must choose between Valinor and Middle-earth when Elrond himself left."

"The choice was theirs, as it was Queen Arwen's, in the choosing—not in when Lord Elrond passed over sea."

"Hm," Sam mused. "That should be corrected."

Legolas looked at him blankly.

Frodo laughed. "I have finished with writing, Sam. It will stand."

"You meant the writing of the tale, I see," Legolas interpreted. "Well, you shall have a chance to correct it, if you wish it."

"What does that mean?" Sam asked.

Before Legolas could explain, Gimli asked, "How was your journey?"

"Uneventful." Legolas stretched out his long legs and turned his face toward the sun. "We arrived at the haven under a heavy sky, and through the clouds came not only the dawn but the ship bearing many from Middle-earth." He said seriously, "There will be no more ships from that land."

"Have all the Elves emptied from its woods and fields, then?"

"No, Sam. The others will remain, however they may."

"And your family?" Gimli asked, with sudden concern.

Legolas closed his eyes. "They chose not to come."

"My dear friend, Legolas! It grieves me to hear that."

"And I. But I cannot change it." He stood and arched his back. "Tonight we feast our arrivals. I must prepare. Will you stay here?"

"No, I shall join you. I have imposed on hobbit kindness far too long." He waved a hand at the protests that followed this statement. "I thank you—as always—for your generous hospitality."

"You will come tonight?" Legolas asked Frodo.

Frodo smiled. "Of course."

Later that afternoon, the hobbits sat together at the kitchen table, drinking their tea and munching sweetcakes. Lhachir had baked the small brown confections before leaving that morning, making his good-byes just as Sam had come yawning into the kitchen.

"Imagine seeing your own leg eaten by some horrid orc," Sam said with a shudder, then licked honey off his fingers. "I did not notice, you know, when he delivered Aragorn's letter to me."

"He wasn't bitter, Sam," Frodo murmured, bemused.

Sam shook his head, for Frodo had said these very words more than once. "Naught to be bitter about—leastways, not at you. Those stinking orcs, yes. They deserve the very worst. But you did all you could, Frodo. Not that my saying so will keep you from forgetting again."

Frodo clasped his mug between both hands, holding it near his chest, as if for warmth. "Imagine if we had been delayed an hour longer climbing the mountain, Sam. Aragorn, Legolas, Gimli, Pippin—perhaps even Gandalf: they all might have died."

"That was our risk, Frodo," said the wizard, who was walking into the kitchen, his nose tipped upward as though tracking a particular scent.

"Hello, Gandalf!" Sam exclaimed. "Just in time, too."

"For tea and cake?"

"For setting Mr. Frodo right in his thinking."

Frodo raised his mug. Sipping his tea, he studied Gandalf over the rim. The wizard sat opposite him and met his regard steadily.

"I thought you had given up blaming yourself as a bad habit."

"I met Lhachir, Ellhach's son, this morning."

"Ah." Gandalf smiled gratefully. "Thank you, my dear Samwise." He took the large mug from Sam's careful hands. "Stood in for his father, did he?"

"Yes. Though, of course, it wasn't needed."

"I'm sure he realized that."

Frodo sighed. "You think I'm being foolish."

"I think sometimes you see things more clearly than at other times. I trust that you will do so again." He raised a hand as Frodo glared at him. "I do not doubt the depth of your feelings, Frodo. It must be difficult to accept that the good you set out to do could also result in evil. That does not alter the fact that you set out to do _good_. Lhachir understands that. As do his father and his mother, both."

Beaming, Sam set a plate of warmed sweetcakes in front of Gandalf. "As I said: just in time."

"Thank you, Sam. I shouldn't, you know. There will be a great feast tonight." Nevertheless Gandalf's expression of appreciation widened. "But one or two won't hurt."

That evening, seated with his friends, Frodo watched as Celeborn and Galadriel came in and sat beside Elrond and Celebrían. As their plates and goblets were filled, Celeborn said with a smile, "I am pleased to see you, Gimli son of Gloin. When rumor came that you and Legolas had sailed West, many were disbelieving."

"None more than I, Lord Celeborn," Gimli said ruefully. "It is a strange thing being a Dwarf in Elvenhome. May I ask how it goes in Middle-earth?"

Celeborn's eyes gently touched on Celebrían. "There are none now living in Lórien—none, that is, of Elf kind. Nor, with our leaving, in Rivendell."

"The leaves have faded then?" Elrond asked on a note of regret.

"Faded and fallen. They lie on the ground, and the trees stand bare. It is as if they mourn your departure still."

Elrond took up his wife's hand and lightly kissed it. "My place is here."

"And mine." Celeborn tightened his hold on Galadriel's fingers.

"Please, Lord Celeborn," Sam said a little hesitantly, "can you tell us anything of the Shire?"

"A little," Celeborn said kindly. "There are still Gardners on the Hill, or so I was told. Hobbits remain under the protection of King Eldarion, who holds them in especial esteem. But as Elves have left the lands of Middle-earth, so Men have moved into them and claimed them for their own. I fear the day will come when their hunger for new spaces will bring them into conflict with your kind."

"It is inevitable," Gandalf remarked with quiet certainty.

"And what of Minas Tirith and King Eldarion?" Legolas inquired. "Is there an heir to continue Aragorn's legacy?"

"Yes. A princeling and his younger brother were born shortly after you left. Eldarion will not have his father's long years—that seems clear—and so has wisely set about their training at an early age. The peoples of that land thrive. All vestiges of war, save those preserved for the purpose of remembering, have faded."

"And what of Mordor?"

All eyes turned toward Frodo. He had asked the question without intention, and his expression betrayed no emotion other than simple curiosity.

"In perhaps another twenty-score years, it may prove a viable land," Celeborn replied equably. "There are signs to give one hope. It is said that the fiery mountain no longer burns and is quiet and still; in fact, it is a mountain only in memory, now reduced to ash and rubble. Strangely, it is there in the wastes surrounding the once mighty Orodruin that things have begun to grow. Thorny and small, they are, or so it is said; nevertheless, there are blooms in the spring."

"No more than you'd expect," Sam muttered for Frodo's ear alone. "Nothing but thorns will ever take root there."

"Is it still avoided by all the peoples of Middle-earth?" Gandalf asked. Frodo cast him a quick, grateful smile, for he had wanted to ask the same question.

"Not entirely," replied Celeborn, "or there would be no news of its changes at all. Nomads from the south—Men who were displaced by the war—have begun to travel in the barren lands and to trade with those few slaves who survived and managed to eke an existence out of the unfriendly soil—enough to bear children, and their children, yet more children. They trade also with the King's subjects who have moved farther into what was once the Morgul Vale."

"Hm." Gandalf pursed his lips. "So it was opened up at last?"

"Yes. A few years ago. Hardy folk live there. They do not fear shadows nor tales of the past. Most indeed have begun to doubt that such black evil might ever have walked that earth, less that it was vanquished by the destruction of a simple gold ring."

"Simple!" Gimli repeated shortly.

Legolas hid a smile. "Belief was waning even before we departed those shores. It is the way of Men to forget."

"That is true." Gandalf's heavy tone conveyed his disappointment as articulately as words. "There are few as learned and noble as Aragorn, who understand that forgetting—or ignoring—the past is as dangerous as instigating warfare to relieve boredom."

"Yet, still they do so outside the borders of the King's realm. They squabble among themselves, even when their harvests are abundant and the forests and hills run with game. It is their nature," said Celeborn.

"Our kind has also been known to be awkward and unyielding," said Galadriel mildly. "Perhaps it is the nature of many living things."

"You speak wisely as always, Lady," said Gimli. "Though I believe it is true that Elves have the benefit of always having one hand in the past, so to speak. The rest of us—Dwarves, Hobbits, and Men—must gather what wisdom as we may from those who went before us."

"And they may not always tell the truth," said Sam.

"Just so, Master Gamgee!" laughed Gimli.

Food and wine were brought to the tables, but still the conversation flowed. Middle-earth, Frodo learned, was a land continually in change. With the fading of the Elves, Men had become dominant over the land. Dwarves had withdrawn to their mountain homes and were now believed creatures of fable. Hobbits, under the King's protection, seemed to have become more reclusive with the passing years; even, Celeborn reported, removing from Bree and long years with Men. _We are relics_ , he thought, watching Gimli drain his goblet. Before long, there would be no Elves, Dwarves, or Hobbits in Middle-earth; or those few who remained would retire into the shadows, occasionally glimpsed and spoken of with skepticism. It filled him with strange emotions. Being so far removed from the land of his home, he felt a little melancholy and regret but, above all, an ineffable resignation. All that they had gone through, the Company of the Ring, had merely delayed this outcome. Not only the Elves were fading.

Late in the evening, Frodo and Sam retired to their accommodations, the pleasant noise of Elven voices raised in song wafting across the courtyard as they went. Sam seemed to sense Frodo's mood and suggested tea before retiring. And so they sat in their chairs before the ever-burning fire and sipped from their mugs and spoke very little. When he rose to go to his room, Frodo paused beside Sam's chair and, leaning over, kissed the top of his head. Sam caught his hand and clasped it for a moment, before letting him go. "Good night, Frodo," he said softly.

"Good night, Sam," Frodo said in return.

In the morning, met by a bright dawn and filled with freshly baked rolls, Frodo faced the world with an improved spirit. After breakfast, he and Sam tramped the fields west of the orchards, looked in on Sam's plot of herb, which was growing to his satisfaction, then wandered back homeward as the sun stood at the pinnacle of the heavens, casting down blinding light and baking heat. Clouds were massing in the west; already the shoulder of the mountain was obscured with deeply purple layers of rain-laden potential.

As they sat in their kitchen, finishing their lunch, Lhachir appeared. Frodo greeted him warmly.

The young Elf leant upon his staff. "I bring you word from the Lady Galadriel and the Lord Celeborn. They bid you attend them within the hour, if you are free to do so and willing."

Sam guffawed before remembering himself. "Of course we're free and willing."

At that Lhachir smiled back. "They have a surprise for you," he said in a conspiratorial tone. "One I think you will find it to your liking."

"Will you give us a hint?"

The youth shook his head no. "They would take my other leg if I spoiled it."

"They would do no such thing," Sam cried out, half appalled and half amused. "Will you come with us?"

"If you would invite me, yes."

"Then you are invited," Frodo said. He wiped his mouth with his napkin and rose from the table. "I think we'd best tidy up, Sam."

A short while later, the three made unexpectedly swift progress along the ridge toward Galadriel's glade. Lhachir was quite agile with the aid of his stick, so much so that the hobbits occasionally fell behind and had to hurry to catch him up. Soon they were descending the long northern slope through the thick trees, their footfalls muffled by the deep undergrowth. The path entered the clearing and they saw a small group of Elves, including Legolas, and with them were Gimli and Gandalf.

"There you are," Gandalf said. As Frodo and Sam went obediently to seats behind a low, carved table, as directed by a sweep of Gandalf's hand, they glimpsed Lhachir circling to the back of the group of Elves where he disappeared from their sight.

"Lhachir said you have a surprise for us," Frodo said, once the appropriate greetings had been exchanged.

"Not I," Gandalf said, and turned toward Celeborn, who sat beside Galadriel.

As if signaled, Celeborn gestured toward an attendant. The Elf immediately bent down and straightened up with a bright silver metal box in his hands. It was etched with devices and repeating, curving patterns.

"Oh!" Gimli started. "Surely that is not the vessel I made for…but no, it is not. Though it is indeed similar."

The attendant handed the box to Celeborn, who stood and carried it to Frodo. "King Eldarion asked on behalf of his father, your friend Aragorn, that I bring this to you."

Standing, Frodo accepted the metal container, which filled his arms and was densely heavy. He glanced across at Gandalf who gave him a reassuring nod. Frodo placed the etched case on the table. With deft fingers, he worked open the clasp. Then he raised up the lid and stared in mute astonishment at the object lying within.

"It—!" Sam, for a moment, clearly could not find words to express himself, but his strangled noises implied intense dismay and disbelief. "It cannot be," he said at last. "My family would not—"

"They did not," Celeborn assured him. "King Elessar requested loan of the book so that a copy could be made for him and his subjects. It has been enlarged through the years. This is a copy of the last and most complete version for you, as requested by his son."

Frodo, his hands slightly shaking, lifted out a finely worked simulacra of the Red Book. Only close observation of its binding revealed that it was not the same as the original. He paged through a few chapters, the hand nothing like Bilbo's nor his own, skipped to the last pages, and let out a small "oh" of wonder. A little reluctantly, for he keenly desired to continue his perusal, he passed it over to Sam, who took it as gingerly as he might a startled cat. Another book lay in the case—a copy of Bilbo's Elvish translations. And yet another lay below that—proclaiming itself, by its title, a copy of additional writings by Meriadoc Brandybuck. Unaware that his face was glowing with intense joy, Frodo said with helpless gratitude, "Thank you, Lord Celeborn. I am greatly in your debt."

Celeborn said, "What effort was required in delivering this package is well paid for by the pleasure in your eyes."

"There's a mort more here than I wrote," Sam marveled. "Did you see these added chapters, all about calendars and pipe-weed and the histories of families, Frodo? There's even a Tale of Years."

"Only a glimpse, Sam. Isn't it overwhelming?"

Sighing deeply, Sam closed the book and carefully handed it back to Frodo. He shook his head with amused disgust. "Wouldn't you know it, someone got my birthday wrong."

Frodo broke out laughing. Reverently setting the book back inside the case, he put the lot on the table and reached out a hand to his dear friend. "It was Pippin, no doubt. He knew you'd look."

Sam chuckled. "It'd be like him, that would."

"Take a glass with us and then you may be on your way, as I sense you are anxious to go," Galadriel said. "Another few minutes will only sweeten your anticipation."

Galadriel's wine was without compare—though they preferred their own ale—but they were thirsty after their walk, which they discovered with the first goblet. A few of the Elves sang, and Frodo was a little startled to realize it was the Tale of Nine-Fingered Frodo. Sam sat shining his approval, and stalled their leaving until it was done. And then Gandalf walked with them back through the cool cover of the forest, carrying the case as if it were no heavier than a leaf or a feather. At their home, he handed it to Frodo.

"I should like a look through all of that as well, once you and Sam have had your fill," he said. "I have heard much of this version of the history, but saw only Bilbo's tale while you were healing in Rivendell."

"You may find me a tediously long-winded teller of tales," Frodo warned him. "I wrote that for hobbits, who demand detail and despise endings."

"I may," Gandalf said ponderously. "And if I do, I shall certainly tell you so." He left them and strolled across the lawns and courtyard to Elrond's house.

Frodo and Sam went inside. It was by now late afternoon, and close enough to tea for them to rummage in the kitchen. Ellhach had counted on their appetite, so they were rewarded in their search by plates of cheese and cold meat and water simmering on the edge of the fire.

They took turns reading to each other throughout the remains of that afternoon long into the evening. So engrossed were they in the additional chapters that the dimming of light was their first hint that the day had quite worn away. Ellhach appeared and set a tray on their shared table along with mugs of ale. Their thanks were effusive, and as usual, were received with a nod and silent withdrawal. Frodo and Sam continued their study of the books while they ate and drank.

In the middle hour of the night, Frodo sat back in his chair, rubbing his eyes. "'Well, I'm back.'" He regarded Sam with amused affection. "Is that what you said, truly?"

Sam nodded, his expression a little shamefaced. "It is. I left out the part about weeping like a babe."

"It would seem that you left out a great deal. A brief discussion between you and your children fifteen years later, and nothing else! You were supposed to continue the tale, Sam. Surely, there was more news than this to tell?"

"And you've heard it all by now. It was all babies, and mayoring, and overseeing the Shire." Sam shrugged. "I am no great hand with a pen, Mr. Frodo. Not like you and Mr. Bilbo—or Merry, for that matter!"

"That is a great pity, Sam. I seem to recall telling you once that others would want to hear more about Sam Gamgee—and you left their wishes unfulfilled."

"There were a few, it's true," Sam conceded. "But they soon wearied of asking."

"You're heartless, Sam!" Frodo exclaimed with a laugh. "I wish I had your strength of will." As he sat smiling at Sam, Frodo's expression slowly underwent a change. "Sam—" he said seriously, and then hesitated.

"Yes, Frodo?"

Frodo forged awkwardly on. "How could you know what I saw in Valinor?" he asked. "It's almost exactly right, what you wrote—my first sight of the shore, I mean."

Sam seemed oddly flustered. "I didn't know, of course. But when I read through all your writings, your dream in Old Bombadil's house kept coming back to me. For some reason, it made me think of the Undying Lands. I wanted it to be like that for you, clean and sweet and green. Like home. I had no notion that I had guessed right. There were a few sticklers who took me to task for putting that in, I can tell you."

"Oh, Sam." He stood and stretched, the tightness in his spine reminding him just how long he had sat virtually unmoving. "I wish you could tell them that you were right all along."

Sam started to rise, and then gratefully accepted the hand Frodo reached down to him. "Goodness, look at the time, Frodo!" For a moment, they stood side by side, and Frodo stared searchingly into Sam's eyes. "What is, Mr. Frodo? What have I done?"

"Dear Sam. It's time I apologized, that's all. I did not mean to be cruel, you know, leaving as I did." Frodo felt the color come into his cheeks. "I was thinking only of myself, of the unhappy anniversary that was rapidly approaching. I could not face it a—"

With a sharp shake of the head, Sam silenced him. "You've naught to apologize for, Frodo. Gandalf told me what happened when he met me here, and I felt ashamed. It's true, I did not want you to go. And I missed you dreadfully year after year. But this was the best place for you, where you might be properly honored and admired. And where you could heal."

"It's better now," Frodo said softly.

"I wanted to see you again," Sam said simply. "If you had climbed into the stars, I would have waited for a great wind to carry me aloft, after you."

Frodo shook his head indulgently. "I think it was not much easier coming here, all on your own. My brave Samwise."

Grinning, Sam said, "Time for bed, Mr. Frodo. You've begun to speak nonsense."

* * *

Over the next few days, they continued to read through the many, many pages. Gimli and Legolas joined them, Gimli expressing a great interest in what had been preserved. He chortled and growled and occasionally even snorted. Legolas's eyes lingered on the Dwarf and he smiled faintly at Gimli's passions.

"I had forgotten that!" Gimli proclaimed. "Did 'Olórin of the West' ever say, then, what he knew about you and Bilbo?" he asked Frodo.

Frodo's brows went up. "I thought about it once—and then forgot again," he confessed. He would not mention that he was perhaps better off not knowing.

"You are incurious for your kind," Gimli remarked ironically. "It has been more than eight score years. I should have thought you might remember to ask him in all that time."

"Eight score years for you," Frodo said.

Legolas eyed him thoughtfully. "But not so many here," he said astutely. "What year is it then for you, Frodo?"

There was no need to calculate the date. "Just over a year since I left the Shire. The second, perhaps the third, month of 1423 for me. Yet, by Celeborn's news, it is 1601 in Shire Reckoning."

"Ah." Gimli folded his hands on his lap. "I withdraw my rebuke, for that explains it. But perhaps it is best to forget the years of Middle-earth. They are behind us, all of us, now."

"If the last of the ships have sailed, there will be no more news, that is true," Legolas said.

It was Gimli's turn to consider his friend closely. "There may be others," he said heartily. "No one expected ours, you know!"

"You are right, friend Gimli," Legolas said. "But my heart believes otherwise."

"As may be. But, then, endings are not to be feared. They come to us all. Some sooner than others."

At these words, spoken matter-of-factly, a shadow crossed Legolas's face and, as if dismayed, he tightened his lips. Frodo bent his head over his book. He had seen that look before—in his own mirror.

Gimli threw his head back. "Come, my friends. Read to me from Merry's works. That is quite a scholarly tome on an important herb! What do you say, Legolas?"

The Elf raised an imperious brow. "I say Dwarves and Hobbits are as alike as kin." Gimli laughed aloud, and then hushed himself as Sam began to read.

* * *

Over the days and weeks that followed, Elves came from the far reaches of the Undying Lands to while away their hours in the glade of Galadriel and Celeborn or in the great feasting hall of Elrond's house. In paying their respects to Celeborn and Elrond's sons, they took time also to meet Frodo and Sam and Gimli. The tale of the Ring was told many times over, both in concise and elaborate form, from Hobbit, Dwarf, Elf, and even Wizard perspective, for Gandalf joined in at nearly every gathering. 

When not entertaining, Frodo and Sam, sometimes with Gimli in attendance, continued to read and reread the Shire books. For Sam of course, much of it was known. But even he could not pretend to be unmoved when they read the brief notation regarding Merry and Pippin's leaving their offices and their homes, and going to lie at last at Aragorn's right and left hands—and he, their beloved friend and king, choosing to lie with them.

"Imagine that," Sam said. "Hobbits in service of the great King. But what a king! He was a friend to his people as well as their leader."

"I wish I might have seen him again," agreed Frodo. "If all men were like him—"

"Or Faramir."

"Yes, of course, Faramir: I shall never forget him, either. Had they all been of that sort, Sauron's work would have been a great deal more difficult to achieve."

"Had they all been like that," said Gandalf, from the doorway, "Sauron would never have been restored to power."

"Gandalf!" Sam exclaimed. "Just the fellow."

"Indeed?"

"Come in, Gandalf," Frodo said, reaching out a hand. "We've just sat down to our tea. Will you take a cup?"

"I will." The wizard gave Frodo's hand a squeeze before sitting on a bench near the hearth.

"You've been away," Sam remarked.

"I have. To Taniquetil. While I was there, Lady Varda asked after you two."

Sam's eyes grew round. "After us? Both of us, truly?"

"Indeed, both of you. She has a particular fondness for hobbits."

Frodo smiled at Sam's red-faced astonishment. "What did you tell her?"

"That you are well and seemingly content."

"Oh!" Sam said.

Frodo rose and fetched from the mantle the cup that would fit Gandalf's hand. He emptied the pot into it—and then thanked Ellhach when he appeared and wordlessly took the pot away for refilling.

"Are you still reading your treasure?" Gandalf asked, amused. He sipped from his mug and then cradled it in his palm. "You've had it for weeks now."

"And the reading of it has burrowed deep into my mind," Frodo laughed.

"Tell him your dream, Frodo." Sam's eyes were still unusually bright.

Frodo looked fondly at him. "It was not so interesting as that, Sam dear."

"Sam seems to think so," Gandalf said. "Let me hear it, if you will tell it."

Frodo shrugged, but did as he asked. "It came, I'm certain, from all this reading. I dreamt of a garden in a land like the Shire. But there were many houses, not holes. I saw a man tending to his flowerbed—though at first I thought he might be a hobbit. He was dressed rather like us, and he had a pipe in his jacket pocket. His face was very clear to me: pleasant, yet stern." Frodo narrowed his eyes, as if in an effort to see more clearly. "He uncovered something in his garden. It was a box, like this one." He gestured toward the metal container that Gimli had mistaken for his own work. Frodo shook his head, a wry grin on his mouth. "That's all, really. Not so much of a dream; but Sam has been quite taken with it."

"And Sam displays a clarity of mind that occasionally exceeds yours, Frodo."

"And what do you mean by that, other than to insult me, as usual?"

"I have seen this man, also, for man he is," Gandalf said. The hobbits stared, disbelieving, at him, and he chuckled. "When visiting the mountain of the Valar, even I may see with far vision, for Manwë allows it. As he has often allowed it to you, Frodo."

"To me? I don't under—"

"Have you never wondered about the things you have seen? I did not understand at first, for it seemed unlikely. Now, of course, I know the truth."

"What things, Gandalf? Please explain!" Frodo implored.

"You must remember seeing me when I was held captive in Saruman's tower?" Frodo nodded. "And your 'dream' of Valinor when you slept in Bombadil's house?"

"I—yes, of course. But I—well, I never imagined—"

"Who is he, Gandalf?" Sam asked. "This man Frodo saw."

"A descendant of Aragorn."

"Will he truly find the Red Book?" wondered Frodo.

"He may. If the paths of time travel in that direction." Gandalf's expression subtly altered; a tinge of sadness made him look like the old man he had once pretended to be. "But there are many wars yet to come. And, if Manwë's vision is true, this long son of Aragorn will serve in a great one."

Hushed, Frodo prodded, "Is he a king, Gandalf? He did not look like a king."

"No, Frodo. Nor will he know anything of his great ancestry. Your dream is a look into the far, far future. The land will change as will its people. The house of Aragorn will cede to another in its time, and for a time there will be no kings at all. Elves and Dwarves and Hobbits will fade from the world. But the day may come when their story is yet told."

"And this man will be the one to tell it?"

"Perhaps." A soft sigh whistled between Gandalf's lips. "And, perhaps it was only a dream."

A moment's silence lay heavily upon them. And then Sam whispered, as if with great temerity, "What does she look like, Gandalf, the Great Lady Varda?"

* * *

Sam's garden, nurtured by a gentle spring, grew lush and colorful. His pipe-weed patch grew stronger. As spring gave way to summer, he began to pluck leaves and dry them out. The first puffs brought tears to Sam's eyes: the essential ingredient was unmistakably not yet developed. So Sam allowed the summer sun to add mellowness and age: refinement. The last leaves of the season were rated a great success, better even than the Shire progenitor from which the Valian plants had been produced.

Gimli shared in the sampling, but he used his pipe less frequently as the months passed. The advent of spring was disagreeable to him until he was presented with a shawl woven on the Golden Lady's own loom. It glimmered on his shoulders when he sat, lost in her singing in her shaded glade, or in the hobbits' sitting room, his slippered toes pointed toward the fire. Perhaps because of his dislike of the cold, he took to visiting Elrond's forge and spent many days working metal as he had when a young prince learning the ways of his people. Frodo and Sam, as was their wont, spent their days reading or wandering the hills and valleys near their home. When traveling, as often as not, they came back to their quarters at the greying of the day, having been invited to take a meal with Elves they met on the road.

An evening came when Gimli's metalwork was revealed. Lhachir, entering between his mother and father, walked on two legs, one of which, as Frodo later learned, was crafted of a light but sturdy wood core and banded with metal. Clearly, the young Elf had used his Dwarf-make limb often enough to acquire both skill and grace, for none who were unaware of his maiming would have guessed that there was anything unnatural about him. The following morning, Lhachir showed Frodo and Sam the intricate articulation of knee and ankle, as designed by Gimli, which granted him motion and balance. Gimli, though clearly pleased with himself, brushed aside their praise and wonder. "You've seen the Halls of the Dwarrowdelf," he harrumphed. "Now _that_ is crafting to be admired."

Frodo was relieved to see the Dwarf's engagement with his new world, and convinced himself that he had misunderstood the exchange he had witnessed between Gimli and Legolas. The other things he had noticed—Gimli's gradual forsaking of pipe-weed and taking his ale mulled—were easily ignored, though they niggled.

Spring yielded yet again to summer. Sam's crop of smoking herb was everything he had hoped for, and the small patch was more than sufficient for his and Frodo's needs. The garden at Westhole, as Sam had come to call their home, was resplendent with reds and purples, yellows and oranges, and endured even the most violent of summer's torrential downpours.

On a warm morning, in the last days of the season, Frodo was startled from the simple pleasure of sipping his tea by Sam's calling of his name from the garden. He went out at once, mug in hand, for there had been urgency in Sam's tone.

"What is it, Sam?" he asked, and saw at once the cause of Sam's excitement. In the center of the garden outside the kitchen window now stood a plinth of grey stone. A disk of darker stone rested upon it, its curved sides etched with vines and flowers. Upon the center of the disk was a wedge of worked metal, its top and sides detailed with lines and numbers, and from its midpoint arose a sharp fin of silver. "A sun clock." Frodo gazed upon this work of art and use with unfeigned admiration. Gimli sat quietly observing their reactions, a tendril of smoke issuing from his mouth.

"It's the finest of its kind I've ever seen," Sam proclaimed. "Look at this, Frodo. The detail is quite striking. And, oh my word—"

Alerted by Sam's sudden gasp, Frodo followed his gaze. It took a moment, but when he could trust himself he said evenly, "It's beautiful, Gimli. A magnificent gift for the garden."

Gimli nodded and smiled, but his eyes were on Legolas, who stood near the end of the lawn, watching the spreading colors of morning. Something in the lean lines of him communicated his withdrawal.  
Unnoticed, Frodo and Sam shared unhappy looks, for they understood Legolas's concern. Four stones marked the quadrants of the disk, the uppermost a crystal of incomparable beauty signifying north. Within the crystal, artfully suspended, were three strands of gold.

A few days later, as Frodo sat under a peach tree in the orchard overlooking the field where Sam worked his patch of pipe-weed, Gimli came to him. Frodo had been expecting the Dwarf, and each day that had passed had been a gift.

"May I sit with you, Master Hobbit?" Gimli asked courteously.

"Of course, Master Dwarf."

"Stay where you are. I think this root with its moss and leaves just here will do."

Frodo closed the book he had been reading and waited.

"It's a lovely warm morning," Gimli remarked, relaxing into the curve of the tree and folding his arms across his chest. "But it will rain later, don't you think?"

"I think you may be right," Frodo agreed.

Gimli breathed deeply again and then was silent. He was still for so long that Frodo wondered if he had fallen asleep. Just as he was about to peer round the side of the tree, however, Gimli spoke. "I have two questions for you."

"Two?"

Gimli chuckled. "You think you know what one of them is, don't you?"

"Yes," Frodo said on a slow passage of breath. "I'm afraid I do."

"Well, you're probably right. And I'm honored, for it clearly distresses you. So let me put it forth without further delay. The gift of men: quick or slow?"

Frodo swallowed a sigh. "Quick."

"Ah," Gimli murmured. "Truly a gift."

"Does Legolas know?" Frodo whispered.

"He guesses." Gimli gave a small snort. "I expect you thought you would die in Bag End, an ancient hobbit, at peace in his bed. I thought I would breathe my last on a field of battle, my axe awash with the blood of my enemy." Another soft sound: it might have been laughter. "Yet here we are. I am more ancient than you can imagine, Master Baggins. Older than any of my kind. My home and my people are somewhere out there, impossibly far away." He lowered his arm all at once and it fell to his side, as if that sudden sweeping gesture had wearied him. "Only his love holds me."

"You said—" Frodo was forced to clear his throat and try again. "You said two questions, Gimli."

"So I did. The other is this: Will you look after him for me, you and Sam? You are still young, and he is fond of you, and you will remind him of me."

"Of course." Frodo searched for something to say. Strangely, the last thing he thought of was the most obvious. "He will miss you."

And then for the first time, Frodo heard a break in Gimli's voice. "There I think you are right, Master Hobbit. Though it is a strange thing, really, one of his kind giving his heart to one of mine." His tone steadied and he went on, "But in truth, if there is any kind of knowing beyond my last breath, I shall miss him, too. Indeed, I shall."

* * *

The Elf stood near the edge of the cliff, his hair and cloak whipped about him by the fierce winds sheering down the rock face. The ashes were gone, carried away toward the sea, itself a grey, luminous stretch of light far off in the distance. The flames had burned with uncanny brilliance and urgency, lit by Gandalf with the aid of words and staff. And now the others were gone, their mournful singing echoing still in Frodo's head. He and Sam stood together a few feet from where Gimli's bier of woven willow withies, cushioned with flowers and moss had lain. It was gone now, burned to nothing, as was Gimli, who, draped beneath his cloak, his axe in his hands, and his head upon the shawl that Galadriel had woven for him, had received Legolas's last kiss with cold lips. He had taken the gift of Men the night before with Legolas at his side, his good-byes made to the others earlier that day.

Sam wept silently, rocking with the wind a short distance behind Frodo. Gandalf was also near, his presence reassuring as always; but his face was grey and he stared expressionlessly out toward the sea.

"He told me his name." Legolas announced somberly. Frodo saw surprise penetrate the gravity of Gandalf's demeanor, and knew what he must be thinking. Bitterness edged Legolas's voice. "And yet he would not allow me to honor him with a house of stone for his long sleep, after the way of his kind." The Elf looked back at them, and Frodo flinched at the anguish in his face. "'There should be no remnant of Dwarves in the land of the Kindly Ones,' he said. 'I shall have the fire. As is the practice of my people when they are far from home.'" Legolas turned back toward the sea. Gandalf went to him and laid a hand on his shoulder.

Frodo turned to Sam. "Let's go, Sam."

They walked back down the sharp slope, grateful when they at last reached the protection of the trees, where the capriciousness of the wind was less noticeable.

Rubbing the tears from his face, Sam said, "I don't think I can bear the loss of another friend, Mr. Frodo."

"Nor I, Sam," Frodo murmured. He could still see the hollow look in Legolas's face. Tightening his arm round Sam's shoulders, he added, "We will go together, Sam, if you still wish that."

"I do. It would be pointless for me to stay here without you." They walked a few more paces down the uneven surface. "Poor Legolas," Sam whispered.

* * *

Late the following evening, Gandalf appeared at the hobbits' house. Sam was already retiring and bade them good night. Frodo sensed that there was something on the wizard's mind and took the time to prepare a fresh pot of tea and a plate of cakes for him. They went outside and sat in the comparative coolness of Sam's garden. The evening was warm and muggy, but in the air was a hint of change to come. Summer would soon be over.

As Frodo filled Gandalf's mug, the wizard said heavily, "Gimli reminded me that I had never answered his question. He thought it was important that I should do so. That you should know the answer."

Frodo topped up his own cup and held it, frowning. "It isn't important, Gandalf."

Gandalf sat on the edge of the cushioned bench, his booted feet peeking out from under his robes. "You know which question he meant?"

"Of course. He mentioned it after we read the Red Book." Frodo smiled vaguely. "He seemed quite taken aback that I had not bothered to ask."

Gandalf gazed into the depths of his mug. "Did you no longer wish to hear the answer?"

"It was Gimli who asked in the first place, not I."

"So it was." A light breeze slipped by them, lifting Frodo's curls and stirring Gandalf's mane.

After a moment, Frodo tentatively asked, "Did you answer him? Gimli, I mean?"

"Yes."

"And…was he surprised?"

A small laugh ruffled Gandalf's beard. "Why not ask me outright, Frodo? This is an aspect of hobbit curiosity I have not encountered before."

Frodo took a moment to gather his thoughts. "It isn't that you picked Bilbo to find the Ring. That seems obvious."

"Does it?"

Nodding absently, Frodo continued grimly, "And I accept that you picked me, too."

"Did I?"

"But perhaps I'd rather not hear it."

Gandalf seemed confused. "Not hear what, Frodo?"

"It's quite silly, I know. But I always believed Bilbo chose me to be his heir. It should not pain me, I suppose, to learn that it was you who persuaded him, but—"

"Ah," Gandalf interrupted. And then, " _Ah._ " He finished his tea and set the mug on the small table at the end of the bench. "You believe incorrectly, Frodo. I had no part in _that_."

Frodo swallowed against a sudden lump in his throat. "Truly, Gandalf?"

"Truly, Frodo." Affection twinkled in Gandalf's eyes. "That was entirely Bilbo's doing. He could not know how well he had chosen—well, not until later, of course."

Frodo was stunned. He gave a long, low laugh. "Well, there: I suppose I ought to have asked after all. You see, I never understood it. I thought surely I must be more nuisance than joy. He was set in his ways, was Bilbo, when he invited me to live with him, and later to be his heir."

"Knowing now that I did not coerce him, why do you think that he chose you?"

Frodo waved a hand inarticulately. "Perhaps because I amused him. Because I loved books. Because I loved him?"

"All considerations, certainly. But there was another reason, perhaps not as important as those, but one that mattered to him a great deal."

Intrigued, Frodo prompted, "What was that, Gandalf?"

Before answering him, Gandalf probed in turn, "Did Bilbo never mention your mother?"

"My mother? I suppose he must have." Frodo pondered. "Well, of course he did. I do remember that he didn't have a terribly high regard for my father. But—what of my mother, Gandalf? What had she to do with Bilbo?"

"He was fond of her." Gandalf seemed to measure Frodo's reaction before saying, "And she of him."

Wholly taken aback, Frodo whispered his astonishment, "Really?"

"Indeed. It was my understanding that she waited for him."

"Goodness, Gandalf!" Frodo's eyes gathered the starlight. "You know a lot about hobbit affairs."

"You're a talkative people, most of you."

Frodo's laughter was a little forced. "That is true." After a moment, he pointed out, "Still, she married my father, not Bilbo. Was that _your_ doing? Because of the Ring?"

"Not my doing, Frodo. The Ring may have been an influence on Bilbo. But I tend to think that he was all too conscious of the Tookish side of his nature. He knew that the urge to wander would never completely fade away. As he proved when he left the Shire."

"How odd," Frodo said. Then he looked sternly into Gandalf's eyes. "So you believe that Bilbo adopted me because he felt some obligation to my mother?"

"Not obligation," Gandalf said. "Think about it. Had things worked out differently, Frodo, you might have been _his_ son."

Frodo's breath caught in his throat. "Oh."

The breeze quickened. Gandalf closed his eyes and murmured appreciatively. And then he said, "And just so you know: I did indeed choose Bilbo. Even though, in that form and at that time I had no clear knowledge that he would find the Ring. But I did know that he was needed. As, later, I knew it of you. Had it been necessary, Frodo, I should indeed have persuaded him to take you in, and to make you his heir. But it was not necessary. Bilbo had the great good sense to do that all on his own."

A while later, when he could find his voice, Frodo said, "Thank you, Gandalf. I wish I could thank him, too—Gimli." He smiled sadly. "I shall miss him."

Gandalf nodded. "As shall I."

* * *

They sat in the garden on a summer day. Frodo closed the Elvish book of the Companions of the Ring and waited expectantly.

"Well done, Frodo," Gandalf said at once. He exhaled a tall, elaborate construction of smoke. All went silent at sight of it.

"Mr. Gandalf!" Sam ventured at last, clearly shocked. "Not the Enemy's tower?"

"Of course not," Legolas said, though he did not sound convinced. "That is Orthanc. Surely."

"That was an enemy's tower," Sam muttered.

"It has something of the look of the White Towers east of the Grey Havens," Frodo offered thoughtfully, bending his head slightly to one side as if to improve the perspective.

Gandalf gave a grunt of annoyance. "It is in fact the Tower of Ecthelion." He set down his pipe and assumed a milder manner. "Your Elvish has grown as sophisticated as your tale."

"He's told it often enough," remarked Sam. "And sometimes he forgets who he's talking to and rattles on in Elf speak."

"You know I don't mean to, Sam," Frodo objected mildly. They had had this conversation before. "Besides, your Elvish is better than mine."

Before Sam could counter—as he was clearly prepared to do—Legolas murmured, "Gimli would have been pleased." He ran a fingertip round the outer edge of the sundial, and then stood aside to see where the shadow fell.

"With Frodo's tale or the number of Elves who have come to stare at Gimli's clock?" Sam asked.

A pained smile touched Legolas's mouth. "Both, I suppose. His clock is as much a legend now as he himself."

Shaking his head wryly, Gandalf noted, "A strange thing when you consider that time means nothing to Elves."

"Yes."

"Well, I don't need to look at a clock to know it's lunchtime," Sam said pointedly. He reminded Frodo, "We were supposed to be on the other side of the hill by now."

"So we were. Our packs—"

"Are here," Ellhach said, setting them on the bench next to Gandalf. "The bread is fresh. I think you will find some of last year's apples in the orchard."

"Thank you, Ellhach." Frodo handed the Elf the book.

"Leave that somewhere that Frodo can easily find it," Gandalf advised. "He will need it tonight at Elrond's table."

Frodo said nothing, but his expression spoke volumes.

"You will have an appreciative audience," Gandalf assured him, ignoring the spark of mutiny in Frodo's dark gaze. "As always. Come along, then. I believe I am going in your direction."

"As am I," said Legolas.

The four companions started out across the lawn. "Summer again," Frodo murmured. "Thank you," he added as Legolas, who was singing softly under his breath, helped to load the pack onto his shoulders.

They had seen the last of spring the week before, following a lingering spell of rain and chilly mornings. Now the sun rode high in the sky and its warmth brought out the scent of grass and leaf and bark. Bees flitted from flower to flower and birds chattered overhead.

"Look, Frodo," Sam said, his voice hushed with awe. A mile or two away, suspended high above the valley they could see an Eagle, its great wings spread wide as it soared upward on the heated air.

"Some day you shall meet him," Gandalf said.

"There's no hurry," Frodo announced. "Sam and I have discussed it. I fear we might impose on you for some years to come, Gandalf. Perhaps many years."

Gandalf gazed down his long nose at him. "Is that so?" He made a pleased noise deep in his throat. "I can think of nothing I should like better."

They had reached the edge of the lawn. There the land broke off into forest on one side and turned into hilly terrain leading down into the orchards and, farther, into the valley itself on the other. "Here I shall leave you," Gandalf said. "I look forward to this evening, Frodo."

Frodo laughed despite himself. Hitching the pack higher onto his shoulders, he kept pace with Sam and Legolas. Not much farther on, Legolas turned toward the stables. He broke off his singing long enough to say, with a knowing smile, "Until this evening, then."

"We'll save you a place," Sam assured him. "Right next to Cirlad," he added under his breath. A few yards farther down the path toward the orchards, Sam asked, "You meant that, didn't you—what you said to Gandalf?"

"For both of us, yes." Frodo replied. He gave Sam a quick, searching look.

"That's all right then." Sam was still watching the Eagle. "Some day I _would_ like to meet him." There were a few more strands of grey in his hair, a few more faint lines about his eyes and his mouth; but he still moved with the soundless grace and vigor of a healthy hobbit.

As they ambled down the slope, the sun warm on their shoulders, Frodo felt a surge of pure joy. Two years ago, he had arrived here, in a land that was not his home, to live among a people who were not his kind. During those years, the world he had been born to had passed away, along with all his kin and those whom he had loved. He still thought often of Merry and Pippin, Bilbo and Aragorn, Bag End and the Shire. Sometimes he even remembered the Ring, though it no longer called to him, but was simply a thing that he remembered, like other things he had known and occasionally forgot. Occasionally Gollum appeared in his dreams, and always there was the regret that he had been unable to save him. Less frequently, he revisited Mordor and the terrible wastelands and the more terrible Mount Doom. Try though he might, he could not picture it as a land striving to live again.

And yet change came upon everything, if it survived long enough. Two years ago he had told Sam that he could not always be torn in two, and that he must be one and whole for many years. He had realized then that the same was true of him. When precisely, however, he had become whole, he could not say. But he was. In many ways, it was like being home.

He turned toward Sam. "Do you feel at home yet, Sam?"

Sam chuckled and gave Frodo a playful nudge. "I have felt at home since the day I arrived. Home is where you are, Frodo. Surely you know that by now?"

Frodo smiled peacefully. "Home is where _we_ are, Sam."

As they tramped along, Sam began to sing the Walking Song. Frodo already knew the words, though they were new: he had listened to Sam practice for days. Neither of them had Bilbo's gift for lyrics; but Sam, with his many more years of experience, came nearer, in Frodo's opinion, than he did.

_"The Road goes ever on and on_  
_Far from the land where we were born,_  
_Past Towers White to Havens Grey—_  
_Where earth and sky both fade away—_  
_From there on seas amongst the stars,_  
_Behind the Moon and Sun It soars._  
_At Elvenhome with folk most fair,_  
_The endless Road at last ends there."_

As Sam fell to humming, Frodo added,  
_"How rare it is that we have come_  
_To live among the Blessed Ones."_

"Just so, Mr. Frodo!" Sam said approvingly. "Again!"

_"The Road goes ever on and on_  
_Far from the land where we were born..."_


End file.
